


Rumor Has It

by SassyEggs



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Blackwater AU, F/M, Fluff, One Shot, slowish burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-07-21
Updated: 2016-03-25
Packaged: 2018-04-10 12:52:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 18
Words: 39,438
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4392653
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SassyEggs/pseuds/SassyEggs
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>On the road to Winterfell after fleeing King's Landing, Sansa idly talks about starting a rumor.  Sandor says no one will believe it, so she tries to convince him of its plausibility.</p><p>Originally a one-shot, now expanded; can still be read as a one-shot.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Rumor

**Author's Note:**

> Have you ever just had a random idea, with no real starting point and no real ending point? Yeah, that's what this is. I liked the idea so I typed it up, literally in about 90 minutes, and here it is.
> 
> Sansa is aged up to whatever makes you comfortable ;-)

Sometimes she wondered how her life would be if she had stayed in King’s Landing. Would she still be betrothed to Joffrey? Wedded? Bedded? They had heard the news soon after their departure so they already knew that Stannis had lost, that Sansa would not have suffered the fate Cersei had planned for her, but that didn’t mean that she would have been safe. No, even on the road with the most fearsome warrior in the kingdom, sleeping on the ground, in the rain, eating plants or rodents or sometimes insects… she was still glad she left. She never regretted it, not ever.

Especially not now, when they were so close to home.

It had been a full turn of the moon since they fled, after he’d come to her room while the air outside glowed green and she had grabbed only the barest of necessities before following him out the door, out of the Keep, out of King’s Landing, and into the woods. At first, she wondered what he expected of her in return, and spent several days waiting for something that never happened. It pained her to remember she ever thought so little of him, when he hadn’t done anything to warrant it. Even after she realized he wouldn’t hurt her she still felt… uncomfortable around him. But he knew everything about her, now- he’d been around when she made water, had been part of discussions about her moonblood, was fully aware of just how loudly she snored… he knew her better than almost anyone, so the discomfort from the beginning of the journey had faded into camaraderie. And he hadn’t done a single inappropriate thing, aside from yelling at her, so now she considered him closer to… well, maybe not a friend, but definitely an ally.

They’d stayed far from the road, far from travelers, and picking through the woods and undergrowth had made the journey much longer than it otherwise may have. But she felt safer this way, far from the news of the world, yes, but also far from danger.

The weather had become increasingly cooler as they travelled north, but the air within the godswood they found was much warmer. Not as warm as she remembered from the godswood back home, but still warmer than outside this little sanctuary, especially past the enormous heart tree and near the hot spring situated at the back of the woods. Sansa considered finding this place a gift from the old gods, but Sandor disagreed. As usual. That didn’t stop him from taking advantage of the gift, though, and they spent the afternoon using everything the woods could offer them. They’d each bathed, privately, then washed their clothes and hung them to dry. Sandor had taken everything from the saddlebags and laid it all out to get some air, trying to stave off the mildew that was a constant threat. They didn’t bother with a fire, since Sansa didn't want one in the godswood and Sandor didn't like them anyway, and feasted off ripe red berries they’d found. It was those red berries that had them returning to the hot spring to wash their hands, each lost in their own thoughts, each lingering for their own reasons.

“Do you think Joffrey has figured it out?” she asked from her spot by the hot spring. When he didn’t respond she clarified. “That we’re together.”

It was a perfectly reasonable question, she thought, but he continued to ignore her.

“It’s probably a good thing we’ve stayed so far from the road, because if we saw any travelers I’d be tempted to tell. ‘Hello, I’m Sansa Stark, this is Sandor Clegane, kindly send word to the king that we’re together.’”

She laughed softly at her own jape but he was unmoved. “Ooooh, even better, we could send word that we got married. Of course, then we’d have to sneak back to the Keep just to see his reaction.”

She started laughing louder, but he kept his eyes ahead, as if she hadn’t spoken at all.

“Come on, it’s funny,” she insisted gently. “All those people wringing their hands, wondering how they could have missed it, wondering how long something was going on between the king’s betrothed and his sworn shield…” The scandalous words trailed off when she noticed he was still not amused and she shook her head at the mirthless man. “You have no sense of humor.”

“How is that funny?” he mumbled.

“How is it _not_ funny?” she countered. When he still wouldn’t show even the slightest hint of a smile, she threw her hands up in exasperation. “You’re impossible.”  

“What the fuck does that mean?”

“You don’t know what ‘impossible’ means?” she sneered at him. Why was he being so… _impossible_?

“I know what the _word_ means, I don’t know what _you_ mean,” he snarled back. “Just because your jape isn’t funny doesn’t mean there’s something wrong with _me_.”

“There _is_ something wrong with you if you don’t think it’s funny. Truly? The thought of Joffrey finally figuring out that we ran off together doesn’t seem funny to you? You know how he gets when people take his things. He’d probably be wildly jealous… that I stole you away from him.”

This time he did laugh, and Sansa rejoiced in her victory. “See… I told you it was funny.”

“You try to start a rumor about us being married, it’ll only ruin your honor.” Sansa twisted her face at him to show that she disagreed even though deep down she knew he was right. “And your mother would not be pleased at all.”

Also true, she knew it, but she just cocked her head and sighed at him as if he were talking nonsense.

“And everyone would think I forced you into it,” he continued, not even upset by the words he was saying. But _she_ was upset, and gasped loudly to show her disapproval, even though she knew this was also correct. Who _wouldn’t_ think he forced her?

“Well, I would tell them,” she insisted, trying to make him feel better. “I’d tell them all that you would never do that.”

“They wouldn’t believe you. They’d think I made you say that.”

“They wouldn’t,” she tried again. “Not if I tell them it was my idea.”

He snorted loudly to show what he thought of that. “And who would believe such a thing?”

“Everyone,” she said emphatically. “They’ll believe whatever I tell them.”

They began slowly walking away from the hot spring and back towards the camp. “Would they, now?” he asked, clearly unconvinced. “And what would you tell them?”

“Hmmm. I’d tell them how you protected me in King’s Landing, kept me safe and out of harm’s way.”

“A blatant lie,” he grumbled.

“Hush. I’d tell them how you came to my room and gallantly whisked me away to take me home to my family.”

“Not exactly true.”

“ _I said hush_. I’d tell them how you took care of me and never did anything inappropriate, how you never asked for anything in return, and how after… oh, a fortnight or so… I suggested we get married.”

“And why would you do something so stupid?”

“It’s not stupid,” she snapped, feeling insulted, though which one of them he was insulting with that question she wasn't entirely certain. “But if you must know, I was _enamored_ with your bravery and gentleness and honesty, and quickly found myself deeply in love. And so I asked if you would marry me and you agreed.  To save my honor.”

“That’s a ridiculous story.”

“It is _not,”_ she huffed at him. “It’s a beautiful story. Just like a song.”

He snorted again, but she ignored him.

“So we stopped in a little sept…”

“What septon in his right mind would marry us?”

 _“Fine,”_ she relented, though she didn’t agree. “We… found a godswood and wed each other there. That’s better, actually- no witnesses needed, no septon, we could just do it ourselves in front of a heart tree.” By way of example, she gestured towards the heart tree they were approaching.

“Uh-huh. And how did that go?” He sounded terribly disinterested in the tale she was telling, but as long as he was asking she’d happily play along.

“Oh, it was _beautiful,”_ she gushed up at him, trying to be as melodramatic as possible. “The sun was starting to set so all the trees were brushed with just the faintest trace of auburn. The air was pleasant, with a slight chill but alive with the love we had for each other. I had a small bouquet of winter roses, in honor of my northern heritage of course, my hair was done up in the northern style with leaves and tiny white flowers woven throughout. I wore… hmm, I suppose I wore my purple velvet gown.  It doesn’t really fit me anymore, but it’s the nicest thing I have. And you wore…” She paused her thoughts for a moment, considering her options before continuing.

“This,” he finished for her, gesturing to his clothes.

Sansa came to a complete stop and gaped at him. “You did _not_ wear that to our wedding.”

“What’s wrong with it?” he growled, obviously offended.

“Nothing. If you’re sleeping in the woods.”

“If it’s good enough for the woods, it’s good enough for a wedding.”

“It is _not_. You’re supposed to be at your best on your wedding day.”

“This _is_ my best,” he snarled at her. “You knew that when you married me.”

“I can’t believe you,” she huffed indignantly. “You won’t even get dressed up for our _wedding?”_   For a moment they just glared at each other, standing in the shadow of the enormous heart tree, each stubbornly refusing to yield.

The fact that they were having a real argument over an imaginary event was apparently lost on both of them.

“Fine,” he relented unhappily. “What would you have me wear?”

Sansa thought only a second this time before it came to her. “Your Kingsguard armor.” Sandor snorted and she looked at him with exasperation. “It’s the nicest armor you own, why wouldn’t you wear it to our wedding?”

“I never wore that shit,” he complained with a grumble.

“All the more reason you would wear it to a wedding,” she countered logically.

“You can’t say I wore it at our wedding when you know full well I didn’t even bring it with me.”

 _“No,”_ she told him with rapidly-diminishing patience. “You _did_ bring it with you, because… you were planning on selling it. _Then_ we got married. _Then_ you sold it.”

He snorted at her again but didn’t argue, so she continued with a flourish.

“So… you were in your _Kingsguard_ armor and I approached the heart tree in my maiden’s cloak and you said ‘Who comes? Who comes before the gods?’” She looked at him expectantly but he just glared at her in response. “Come on, say it.”

“Who comes?” he grumbled low. “Who comes before the gods?”

“Good,” she said, encouragingly. “And then I said ‘Sansa of House Stark comes here to wed. A woman grown and flowered, trueborn and noble, she comes to beg the blessings of the gods. Who comes to claim her?’ And then _you_ said…”

“Me, Sandor of House Clegane. I claim her. Will you take this man?”

Sansa giggled. She couldn’t help it, his cooperation was amusing. “So I said ‘I take this man,’ and then we knelt together in front of the heart tree…”

And she knelt, tugging at his sleeve so that he would kneel, too, though she wasn’t sure if that was something he was willing to do. But he knelt, facing her, and peered through slit eyes. “Then what?”

“Then we prayed,” she replied, and he rolled his eyes with a loud exasperated sigh. She knew there was no way he would pray with her, but she said a quick prayer anyway before standing up. He followed her lead, then raised an eyebrow at her as if to ask what came next.

“Um… then, you removed my maiden’s cloak…” Quicker than she thought possible, his hands undid the clasp of her cloak and let the garment fall unceremoniously to the forest floor. That was unexpected, and Sansa was… surprised… but recovered quickly. “Then you gave me your cloak…”

Her heart was pounding as she watched him undo the clasp of his own cloak, swinging it around to completely envelop her in its warmth. She could feel his fingers at her neck as he fastened the clasp together, but she couldn’t take her eyes off his.

His hands finally fell away from her and they were standing facing each other again. “Then what?” he rasped, sounding almost bored.

“Oh. Then it was over.” When she saw his dubious expression she clarified. “Weddings in the godswood are much simpler than weddings… anywhere else.”

“So there was no kissing?” he asked with a sneer.

Gods, why would he say something like that? She blushed madly at his comment and fought back a nervous laugh. “Well, I suppose we could always say that we added it, since I was raised to honor both the old gods and the new. Who’s to stop us, anyway? It was our wedding and we did it however we wanted.”

“Alright,” he agreed, eyes bright with amusement. “So what happened after the cloaks?”

She giggled as she continued the tale. Oh, it was such a fun thing to imagine her wedding, even one as ridiculous as the one she was describing, and she was so glad that he was playing along with her silliness. “So… then, I said ‘with this kiss I pledge my love, and take you for my lord and husband.” And then _you_ said…”

She saw his arm move again and she stopped the story in confusion, which didn’t abate when he brought his hand to her face, using his fingers to lift her chin to him. She met his eyes before he finally spoke-

“With this kiss I pledge my love, and take you for my lady and wife.”

He paused a moment, eyes burning into hers and mouth twitching into a slightly amused sneer. She knew that look. A full turn of the moon and constant contact and she had learned that particular look more than any other. He was challenging her, daring her to complain, to protest, to stop him. And she _should_ stop him, she knew it and so did he.

So why wasn’t she stopping him?

His eyebrow quirked up but his expression never changed when he bent to her, his lips gently brushing hers in the barest whisper of a kiss. He didn’t remove his hand from her chin when he stood to his full height again, still looking at her with that same mixture of challenge and bemusement, and all she could do was gape at him.

“Then what happened?” he prompted her.

Sansa blinked several times as her mind frantically tried to remember what came next. “And then…” she started and swallowed hard, his hand finally falling from her chin. “Then… well, then comes the feast, but we couldn't really have that, so… we found an inn for the night to celebrate.”

“And how did we celebrate?” His voice had somehow gotten deeper, reaching her ears as a soft rumble, and she suddenly found it near impossible to breathe.

“With… food…”

“… and wine…”

“… and… dancing…”

“… and the bedding.” She thought the look in his eyes might burn her up from the inside out, and her heart stopped while his words hung in the air between them.

“The bedding… yes,” she babbled, grasping dumbly for words. “That was… magical.”

He snorted and shook his head. “There's nothing magical about a bedding, little bird.”

“Of course there is,” she insisted breathlessly. “With… the right person.”

For several heartbeats they just looked at each other- in the middle of nowhere, deep in a godswood, in front of a heart tree- as the implication of her statement sunk in. His eyes moved to her mouth and for a moment she thought he meant to kiss her again; not for the first time she wondered what his lips would feel like pressed against hers. But then the moment was gone when he took a small step away from her and her heart finally started beating again.

“Oh, your cloak,” she began, reaching for the clasp so she could return it.

“Keep it,” he rasped. “It’s yours now, right?”

Giving her one last heated look, he turned and finished the short walk to their camp. If he had bothered to wait even a second then maybe he wouldn’t have missed the shy smile she wore when she finally answered-

“That’s right.”


	2. The Honeymoon

Sandor Clegane was a man of few regrets. Almost none, in truth. He lived by the belief that everything he’d done had been necessary, even the unsavory things, even the things he hadn’t wanted to do.

But he certainly regretted that little mummer’s wedding the girl had forced on him.

Maybe ‘forced’ was the wrong word- he hadn’t truly minded it, not while it was happening. At the time he was more than happy to say the words because he’d meant every single one of them. Even wrapping her in his cloak had been more than an idle promise- he had every intention of protecting her from harm- even after some buggering unworthy lordling got to put _his_ cloak around her- though he knew full well that would never be allowed, knew he’d be sent away as soon as they found her family.

And kissing her- well, he couldn’t really complain about that, either, especially since he’d requested it. But even that had more meaning than she could ever know because he’d wanted it for so long. And she hadn’t hesitated, hadn’t flinched, there was not one tiny spark of fear or doubt in her eyes. That had never ever happened to him before, and having it happen with her, even for pretend, was something he’d cling to for the rest of his miserable life.

Yet he couldn’t deny that the whole thing had been a mistake. Because the girl had changed.

It started with her proximity; it just seemed like she was suddenly always near. He didn’t think he was imagining it, either, since last night when she’d laid out their bedrolls she placed them closer than ever, the frayed edges touching, almost overlapping. Every other night she’d insisted on distance, insisted on propriety, but suddenly there she was, lying next to him as if they were truly husband and wife. And though she hadn’t done a single thing to make him think she’d welcome another kiss or (gods forbid) an actual bedding, the thought that she wanted to be closer to him was almost more than he could bear. It was torture being so near to her, knowing she had wanted it that way, and… he wasn’t quite sure what to think of that.

And then it was her demeanor. She’d hummed to herself as she puttered around their campsite last night, cheerfully setting about her tasks with his cloak still draped around her shoulders and dragging behind her, a curious expression on her face. It took him a while to realize that she looked happy, _truly_ happy, in a way he hadn’t seen since… he wasn’t certain, but he thought it was the Hand’s tourney. That was a long time ago, no wonder it looked so unfamiliar on her. She was just as joyful as if it had been her actual wedding day and not some farce carried out by starving and filthy fugitives. She’d awoken this morning just as cheerful, chirping out pleasantries more than ever before, and he wasn’t quite sure what to think of that, either, only knew he didn’t like it.

She was waiting patiently for him near Stranger- that same peculiar smile on her lips, that same happy spark in her eyes- when it was finally time to get moving.

“Ready?”

“Yes, my lord,” she purred happily.

Oh, right. She’d also started calling him ‘my lord.’

Lifting her up into the saddle, swinging up behind her just like he’d done dozens of times… he couldn’t help the foul mood he was in, the mood she was putting him in. She was being ridiculous, and it was unfair. It had _meant_ something to him, damn her, and the more she played this little game of pretend the more he resented her for it. What would she do if he demanded his husbandly rights, huh? A part of him wanted to find out, wanted to see that shocked look on her face and scare her back into behaving herself. But the other part of him- the part that had gotten accustomed to her easy manner- never wanted to scare her again. So he just continued to suffer. And simmer. And pout.  

“How far will we ride today, my lord?” she asked sweetly, voice lilting at the end as if savoring the words.

“Same as always,” he grumbled.

He offered no other information but she seemed uninterested anyway, instead launching into her usual polite attempts at conversation as if he were one of the ladies in King’s Landing: has he ever been to Oldtown? has he ever tasted saffron? does he like rainy days? Usually her useless tittering was a welcome break from the dreary journey but today it felt like she was mocking him and he didn’t like it one bit. And he supposed that was obvious, since she eventually relented and found another source of entertainment- her hair.

She was combing out her hair with her fingers, turning her head this way and that way and smoothing out the knots. He’d seen her do this before, of course, but she’d never done it while sitting in his lap. He tried to keep his focus ahead of them but even in the corner of his eye he could see delicate fingers running through shiny strands, the beatific expression on her face, and he hated it. He supposed he was scowling, too, because when she noticed she rested her chin on her shoulder and smiled up at him.

“Apologies, my lord, am I bothering you?”

He didn’t answer, just glared at her, and she took his silence for acceptance and happily started plaiting her hair.

When she was done she crossed her hands demurely in her lap, humming softly to herself like she occasionally did. It didn’t _usually_ bother him; today it was an irritating reminder that she was mocking him, but before he could bellow out an insult she grew bored and moved on. Unfortunately, the thing she moved on to was even worse.

He had one hand on the reins, the other resting on his thigh because he had nowhere else to put it and it was the only way to ride without touching her. This is how they rode every single damned day since they’d left the capital and it had never been a problem. But today she reached behind her and took his hand in hers, pulled his arm around her and pressed the palm of her hand to his as if comparing them.

“Your hand is so big,” she chirped merrily.

Any other day he would have been quick with a lewd retort or two in response to such a statement, but today he really needed her to just stop.

She pulled their joined hands up closer for his inspection, effectively pulling his arm tighter around her though she pretended quite well that she didn’t notice. _He_ sure as hell noticed, though… every single muscle in his body jumped and buzzed at the increased contact. _Every_ muscle.

“Look,” she said brightly, turning their hands together so he could see the difference. “Dark and light. Hard and soft. Rough and smooth. They look like they go together, don’t you think?”

No, he did _not_ think, and he yanked his hand away with more force than necessary and returned it to his thigh. Gods, he really needed some wine.

“Sandor,” she began patiently, as if talking to a child. “Stop being so prickly. I don’t know why you’re in such a foul mood, anyway, is it because you didn’t get your bedding?”

She was looking up at him with a knowing smirk, eyes sparkling like the damn maiden herself, and it took all of his strength not to knock her smug little butt off the saddle.

“Quit your buggering games, girl,” he growled like he used to, like he hadn’t growled in a fortnight. But instead of being afraid (like she used to) she only laughed at him, the sound tinkling up around them like bells in the air, and then she leaned in and nudged him as if he’d told the funniest story.

“So… what will we do when we get there?” she asked, looking up through lowered lashes with that same damnable smile.

They hadn’t talked about that, yet, oddly enough, and he’d been glad of it since they both knew her home had fallen into the hands of none other than Theon Greyjoy. He’d met the young kraken in Winterfell and found the boy to be no leader and no great thinker besides. So it wasn’t unrealistic to assume control of the North had already been wrested from the boy’s hands, but it was also possible that the ironborn were still there.

Not that he could tell the bird that.

“Depends on who’s there,” he began cryptically. “If your mother’s there, or your kingly brother, and it looks safe enough, then I’ll leave you in their hands. Otherwise we’ll go find them. Last I heard your brother’s host was in the riverlands, so if he’s not at Winterfell we’ll head to Riverrun.”

It was the best answer he could give her without causing concern, the honest truth with nothing to rouse her suspicions. Yet when he looked down at her she was staring back with narrowed eyes.

“What do you mean, ‘leave me in their hands?’” she demanded, her voice like a warning.

“I mean just that,” he countered with a sneer, and glanced down to see her horrified expression. “Isn’t that what you _want?”_

“To be with my family?” she asked, brows furrowed. “Yes, of course, but…” 

“But what?” he snarled, not even trying to temper his reaction. “I told you I’d take you home, that’s what I’m doing. What else did you expect?”

Her mouth opened and closed several times as if searching for words, looking a bit like a fish, but then she simply turned away from him. And after she gathered her thoughts she continued.

“I thought you’d stay,” she said firmly, confidently, just like a perfect little high-born lady.

“Stay?” he sneered, incredulous. “You can’t mean that.”

“Of course I mean that!” She was looking right in his eyes as if challenging him, and he didn’t appreciate it one bit. “Were you _never_ planning to stay?”

“No, I was never planning to stay,” he mocked her, feeling increasingly sour with every word.

“But… you said…” Her breath was coming in short, he could hear it, see it in the way her chest was heaving. She squeezed her eyes shut for a moment then opened them, staring off into the distance through fluttering lashes, clearly confused. By the time she spoke again it was with a sure voice. “Robb will want you to help with the war.”

Sandor snorted loudly and rudely at that. “I assure you, he will not want my help in the war.”

“Yes he will,” she insisted, though he could tell she didn’t quite believe her own words. “He needs every man he can get. From anywhere. And you’ve already proven yourself loyal…”

“I can’t fight in your war, girl.” She narrowed angry eyes at him, bristling with irritation, but he didn’t care because he was irritated too, he was so _so_ tired of this children’s game.

“He could always use a good fighter to train the others,” she tried anew, appealing to his vanity. “And you’re one of the best, if not _the_ best. Surely you could be happy staying and helping to train Robb’s men. You don’t have to fight in our war, but you can still help us win it.”

Sometimes she was so easy to read, her thoughts plain on her face; this time was no different. She wanted him to stay with her, the gods only knew why, and she was spoiled enough to demand her way, even if that way was not good for him.

“How did you ever get the idea your brother would want me to help his cause, huh? I’ll be glad if he doesn’t lop off my head.”

“He can’t!” she gasped, clearly horrified. “You saved me, why would he… Sandor, you have to stay. You have nowhere else to go, and… at least stay long enough to recover from the journey. Eat some food, sleep in a real bed, figure out what you want. And if you still decide…”

“Stop being stupid!” he bellowed. He hadn’t meant to be cruel but now that it had come out that way he couldn’t say he minded. She deserved it. “I’m the sworn shield to the man your family is at war with, the man who cut off your father’s head!”

“But…”

“But _nothing!_ I cannot stay with you! I can’t fight in your war, I can’t train in your yard, I can’t sleep in your castle, I can’t _anything_. You’re a bloody princess- I can never be anything more than the dog who stole you from your room and dragged you through the woods and you _know_ it. You _know_ I’m right, so just _stop!”_   

She seemed to change before his eyes- her back straightened, her chin lifted, her shoulders went back making her look bigger than she was. And when she turned to level her gaze at him, _that_ had changed as well.

He’d seen that look before, that cold almost-dead expression she reserved for Trant and Blount and sometimes Joff but not for him, never for him. He hadn’t thought he could hate an expression more than that flirty one she was using earlier, but this icy one was far worse, as was the silence that enveloped them as they continued their journey, not speaking. And when they made camp that night she set their bedrolls as far apart as she used to.

Well, he had hoped to rouse her from her silly game, and he’d certainly done just that.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So obviously I caved to peer pressure, and I'm NERVOUS.


	3. The Plan

“Stop your fucking wiggling or you can walk.”

It was the first thing he’d said to her in hours. He’d been snapping and barking at her since the previous morning, even more than usual, but mostly he just sulked in silence. She couldn’t say he’d ever truly _stopped_ being mean to her, but he’d certainly eased up on his foul mood after they’d left the capital. Things had started to become almost easy between them… and then they’d gone and accidentally got themselves married. She knew it to be true, but as long as _he_ didn’t believe it she wasn’t about to tell him otherwise.

He'd accused her of playing a game, and mayhap he was right.  She couldn't even say exactly why she'd acted that way, either, but she supposed she was just caught up in the romance of the whole thing, the knowledge that theirs was a story that would be sung about for ages to come.  And in truth, she rather enjoyed treating him how she imagined she would treat her husband, sneaking touches and saying mildly inappropriate things, and... she had thought he would like it, too. But she had thought wrong; he still didn’t have to punish her for it. It felt like he’d declared war on her for no other reason than acting married.  

It wasn’t as if she actually wanted to be married to him, anyway, so she didn’t know why he had to be so mean about it. He was most certainly not what she deserved in a husband, nor what she wanted, though she had to admit even that had changed in the past year. She used to want a handsome man who would smile and flatter her and give her pretty trinkets, but she had that once and that dream had lost its luster. She no longer cared if the man was comely or offered her pretty words. Now all she wanted was a man who told her the truth, who challenged her when she needed to be challenged, who cared for her and protected her even when it wasn't easy, who put her first, who let her talk as long as she wished, and...

Sansa sighed heavily, earning herself a murderous glare from her dour escort.  Her lord husband.  Well, he could pout all he wanted to; she wasn’t going to try to appease him, not anymore.

The gods knew she had tried. She'd used her courtesies even when he was rude, said all the right things even when he said the wrong ones, she'd even let him kiss her, but where had that gotten her? In the exact same place as she was a full turn of the moon ago. He was completely resistant to the proper lady’s weapons she wielded, and she was completely unprepared for the war he was waging. Septa Mordane had never taught her how to handle a man such as him, presumably because Sansa would never be _around_ men like him.

Yet here she was, riding in his lap and determined to ignore him for the rest of their journey. If her weapons didn’t work on him, then what was the point in using them? She couldn’t fight him the way he fought her, with his vile words and cruel insults and overall gruff demeanor. Trying would only mean failing.

Then again…

_Tears aren't a woman's only weapon. The best one's between your legs._

The memory of Cersei’s advice instilled a new direction in her thoughts. She had tried tears plenty of times and found them insufficient in getting what she wanted, on _this_ man at least. And while she wasn’t about to let him between her legs, she had also never tried any of the other seductive techniques at a woman’s disposal. In fact, the only time she had done anything even mildly inappropriate- pulling his arm around her and pressing their hands together- he had reacted in a negative way. He’d seemed almost _angry_ that she acted as a woman would instead of as a prim little girl. How strange… she could use this, she was certain, she just had to figure out how.

Fortunately, she didn’t have to think about it too long. He had been chastising her for something trivial- as usual- when she shifted uneasily in his lap, and the insult he was about to utter faded to a hiss before he fell silent. It took her a few moments to realize _why_ but when she did, she wasn’t horrified in the way a maiden should be. Instead she tucked the knowledge away to be used later.

And she _did_ use it later. It hadn’t been her original intention, of course, but when a needed tool is dropped in one’s lap it’s only wise to pick it up and use it.

They’d been travelling in silence when without thinking she pointed out a tiny flower she’d spied by the side of the road.

“Oh, look- a jonquil,” she’d sighed wistfully. “Oh, it’s so sweet.”

For some reason, that had just set him off.

“It’s not _sweet,”_ he’d snarled back at her, clearly mocking her. “It’s a buggering weed, a pretty little nuisance. Like a pretty little bird I know.”

And so he’d continued on from there, ranting about her single-minded focus on love stories and songs, her ignorance at living in the woods, her belief that she was too good for this (or so he said) and more, his grating voice rising with every passing word. And so she’d done the only thing she’d known would work- screwed up her face as if deeply insulted, and ground her bottom hard into his lap. He immediately stopped talking.

_Good boy._

She had to bite her lip to keep from laughing. It was so easy, and she hadn’t truly done anything wrong, had hardly done anything at all. What would happen if she _did_ do something that was just the smallest bit inappropriate?

But even as she was wondering this, she was also wondering what made her so sure he wouldn’t turn on her, force her to follow through on her games. Because she _was_ sure; she just wasn’t entirely certain _why._

It wasn’t the first time she’d pondered the man and his actions. In fact, in King’s Landing he’d been so inconsistent in his treatment of her that she’d often wondered exactly what it was that motivated him, how it was he felt about her. Back then she’d shrug it off as just another one of life’s riddles, but now that she spent all of her time with him, right next to him, feeling his heat, his strength, his… anger. All of it, all of him. Now that she was focused solely on the man in question, she found that she simply could not understand him.

It seemed like every single time she needed someone- _anyone_ \- to help her, he was always the one. It was his words that saved her at Joffrey’s tournament, his sword that saved her at the riots, his hand that saved her on the battlements. When Joffrey had her beaten and stripped, it was his voice that had spoken up for her, and it was his cloak that covered her. And he’d promised to protect her, helped her escape, held her close on horseback while she slept all through that terrible night.

Then again…

He wasn’t exactly kind to her. Ever. He mocked her constantly for her courtesies, threatened to kill her (twice!), held a blade to her throat (twice!), forced her to sing for him. The things he said to her the night before the battle left her rattled for hours. And when he found her sneaking back from the Godswood that one night, he’d said so many awful things to her… then took her back to her room without saying anything to anyone.

She’d seen the way he looked at her in King’s Landing, though he wasn’t as bad as the others, and she wasn’t so naïve that she didn’t know what he was thinking. That didn’t stop her from following him right out of the keep the night they escaped, though, a decision she still couldn’t quite explain even to herself. He had been terrifying! But also terrified, and somewhere in her heart she knew he meant the sweet words he’d said and none of the awful ones. So she’d gone… and spent several days wondering what he would do to her, what he would take from her. It had been a reasonable assumption- if she were alone in the woods with Ser Meryn Trant her virtue wouldn’t have lasted the night, she was sure- but with Sandor she’d been perfectly safe. _This dog is all bark and no bite_. She shook her head, surprised now that she never saw it before, and tucked that knowledge away for later as well.

So… how else could she use this, what new way could she employ her feminine wiles to tame the beast?

“Have you ever wanted to travel to Braavos, my lord?” she asked brightly.

“I told you to quit your buggering courtesies, didn’t I?”

Sansa tossed her head and laughed merrily- and falsely- at his statement, leaning in and pressing her hand to his chest like she’d seen women do when they found a man charming. The Hound, though… not so charming, and he glared at her as if he thought she’d gone mad.

“Stop!” he snarled. She did.

Well clearly words didn’t work on the man. And she supposed she already knew that, she just hoped that maybe it depended on the words she used. No words, all action. She tucked the information away for later.

When they made their camp that night they simply set about their usual tasks, their routine so ingrained that they didn’t need to talk at all. She made the fire while he set the traps, and then they’d settled in. After the necessary things were unpacked he watched her lay out their bedrolls, even wider apart than the previous night just to spite him though he didn’t seem to notice. Or mayhap he did notice, and that’s why he was suddenly raging against her ineptitude.

“Is that the best you can do?” he growled out from nowhere. “It’s not hard to lay out a couple of buggering bedrolls, I don’t know why you make it so fucking difficult. Every damn night is always the same…” and on and on and on.

There was nothing wrong with how she laid out their bedrolls and he knew it, he was only trying to hurt her. She retaliated by turning it into a show- bending low to pick all the rocks out of the grass, patting the bedrolls down to make them even, smoothing the fabric so it didn’t wrinkle- knowing full well that he was staring at her cleavage. But he wasn’t yelling anymore so she let him take his look, pretending not to notice, until at last she was satisfied and sat back on her heels.

“There now,” she sighed contentedly and stuck out her chest. “They’re perfect, don’t you think?”

His only reaction was to curse and stomp off into the woods. It was almost too easy.

She’d used his absence to change into her sleep shift, a luxury she only rarely got to use since it was often too cold to shed her layers. But this one was of a thicker weave than her others, and had longer sleeves, so she felt most comfortable any time she got to sleep in it. When he returned he wouldn’t even look at her and she wondered if maybe she had gone too far. He didn’t seem mad, though, just… distant. She felt a pang of guilt at that- she didn’t hate the man, she just wanted to… tame him? Is that what she was doing?

They ate in relative silence, talking only when they had to, before settling down for sleep. When she bade him good night in her most pleasant tone, hoping to annoy him, he’d only grunted in reply.

They were soon surrounded by the relative quiet, the only sounds in their camp the usual night noises and an occasional sigh from Stranger. She didn’t know if Sandor was asleep yet- he was always quiet while he slept, and roused so easily- but it didn’t really matter. She lay in her bedroll staring at the stars through the bare limbs of the tree they slept under. And she thought. This was a new skill she was trying to develop, one she was largely unfamiliar with, but Sansa had always been an excellent student and planned to approach this in the same way as any lesson. She just had to learn it on her own.

So instead of dreaming, she cast her thoughts backwards, searching for every questionable action she’d witnessed, every inappropriate phrase, every single thing that had ever earned her an ‘I’ll tell you when you’re older’ from her septa. She didn’t understand most of them, but also didn’t think it mattered; she’d find some way to use them to her advantage on her current adversary. Because she had him all figured out- knew exactly where his weaknesses lay, knew exactly what his defenses were, and knew she had just the soft weapons to exploit them.

If he wanted a war, then by the seven she would give him one.


	4. The War Begins

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I guess I've spent too much time in modern AU-land, because my vocabulary is weak, lol. Working on it.
> 
> I fully intend to slow this thing down, but the chapter was ready to go, and figured there was no real point in waiting, so here it is.
> 
> Thanks everyone!

He was dreaming. It wasn’t something he did often, but he was certain this was a dream.  The colors were different, sort of deeper and brighter all at once.  The woods were different, too, more like the woods back around Lannisport.  And the girl… yes, she was _very_ different.

“Sandor…” she purred, eyes narrowed demurely. She was completely naked and sitting in his lap, running her hands purposefully over his bare chest.  “It would _please_ me to _please_ you, my lord.”  In his dream he didn’t mock her courtesies or yell at her for calling him ‘lord,’ but in his dream she was so much more agreeable.

“Oh, Gods, I’m so wet,” she murmured and pressed her breasts to his face before sliding down his body. She kissed him everywhere, licking and kissing at his neck, his chest, his stomach, his hip bones.  He was _buzzing_ with anticipation, but just as she wrapped her lips around him his eyes flew open.

He gasped loudly when he woke, shaking terribly. The pain of the pressure between his legs was unbelievable, truly unlike anything he’d ever experienced, and he breathed sharply through clenched teeth, willing it to go away.  He couldn’t think clearly, was too focused on his rattled self, but just when he thought things were bad, they got worse.

“Are you alright?” She put her hand gently on his shoulder and he flinched violently away from her. 

“Don’t touch me,” he hissed. He rolled over to sit up, back to her, arms resting on his knees, slowly coming back to what some might consider normal.  And after a while, she tried again.

“Sandor? Are you alright?”  She sounded concerned. _Wouldn’t be concerned if you knew what was wrong_.    “Are you hurt?”

He snorted at her question but otherwise ignored it. Ultimately, she got up and went to the woods, presumably to make water.  She could just get lost out there for all he cared.  Gods, this was her fault, anyway, with her touching and wiggling and furtive glances.  Damn her for doing this to him.  He would figure out a way to make her pay for this, just as soon as he calmed down a bit and things got better. 

But things only got worse.

“Oh Gods, I’m so wet,” she lamented and every single part of him froze momentarily in horror. He spun quickly to look at her, eyes wide, but she just stared at him, surprised.  Part of him recognized that she was complaining- her clothes were damp, hair and shoes as well, and the tone of her voice was definitely not pleased.  But the _words_.  Staring at her in the clearing with those words echoing in his ears was too much.

“Pack. Up.”  He was so angry he was shaking and he could tell she was wary of him.  “We do this every buggering day, I don’t know why this is so difficult for you.”

She gave him a wounded look, but did as she was told.

He was on edge something fierce the entire morning. When he helped her up on Stranger he might have been a little rougher than necessary, might have bumped her a little when he settled in behind.  He just could not relax and wiled away the time glaring ahead and occasionally cursing under his breath.  When she made the mistake of asking him a question- he couldn’t remember about what- he used the opportunity to rail against her stupidity, getting more and more creative in his insults.  Unleashing his frustration like that was starting to make him feel better, but then, of course, things got worse.

“That’s not fair,” she protested. “How would you like it if I gave _you_ a tongue lashing every time…”

“A _WHAT_?”  His eyes felt like they just might crawl out of his head, his stomach a ball of lead.

She was blinking at him, wide-eyed and innocent as a babe. “A… tongue lashing?”

He glared at her, even more furious than this morning- partially because now she was nestled right in his lap- but she still just blinked at him nervously.

“Um… it means… to beat someone… with your words.”

“I know what it means,” he growled through clenched teeth. He _did_ know.  Of course he knew, it was a common saying, but when _she_ said it… it just sounded different.  Wrong.  She looked away helplessly and they fell back into a tense silence.

Not for the first time he wondered what in seven hells he had gotten himself into. It had been near impossible to keep his hands off her in King’s Landing, even with all those people around and hardly seeing her alone and his white cloak and everything.  But now he was alone with her _all_ of the time, bodies touching _all_ of the time, and she was saying and doing things that sent his thoughts winging off into the lewdest of directions.  And that was bad.  He had wanted to keep her safe, but forgot that he himself was exactly the kind of arse she needed protection from.

He wanted to laugh at his own idiocy but the tension coiled tight within his gut wouldn’t allow it. Gods, it had been such a long journey, and there was still so far to go.  And she was so at ease around him, which he had always thought he wanted, but… it was too much, _she_ was too much, and he felt overwhelmed.  How was he supposed to keep her safe when it was killing him to have her so close?

“Do you know how to work a blade, little bird?” he asked as calmly as he could.

“A… blade?”

“A _blade_ ,” he spat.  “A knife?  A sword?  Anything?”  She was pressing her lips together, eyes wide in uncertainty.  “You’re telling me your buggering father never taught you how to defend yourself?  Fuck!”

“But isn’t that why I have you?” she replied sweetly, chin on her shoulder and smiling up at him through lowered lashes.

Gods, he really really really needed a drink. He ran one hand over his face and glared at her but she seemed completely unbothered by it. 

“I’m gonna give you my dagger,” he rasped through heavy breaths, and pointed at the weapon in question at his waist, opposite of where she sat. “You need to learn how to use it- how to hold it, how to draw it, how to wield it.  Give you something to do besides chirping at me.”

“If you say so,” she sighed, then leaned over him to grab the knife on his belt.

“NO!”

She stared up at him with such a look of innocent confusion he almost burst with frustration. Instead he said nothing, just pulled Stranger into a stop so he could dismount and remove the damn thing off his belt himself.  Gods, leaning over him, grabbing at his waist like that… she should know better, she should!

It took several moments of deep breathing before he calmed down enough to swing up behind her and continue the ride, shoving the dagger into her hand more forcefully than necessary.

“I know this probably affronts your delicate high-born senses, but you need to stop being so buggering useless. Can’t expect me to do everything, _my lady,”_ he sneered down at her, letting her see just how annoyed he was, because _she_ was the one who made him this way.  “Don’t unsheathe it yet, just get used to the weight of it.  Too fucking weak to properly wield it anyway.”

Her thoughts were showing on her face again, though he couldn’t quite place what they were, could only tell they were not quite about the knife in her hand. After a few moments of blinking at him she looked like she had decided something, and turned her attention to the weapon in her lap.

She didn’t test the weight or attempt to use it or anything, just ran her delicate fingers over the pattern on the sheath, then grasped it firmly with both hands, caressing it with her palms, over and over, almost exactly like...

“What the fuck are you doing, girl?” he growled low, too flustered to yell.

“Hmmm, just feeling it. It has a very interesting texture- soft, but hard too.  Smooth, but a little bumpy.  And so heavy.   It looks huge in my hands.”  She turned her eyes up towards him as if to gauge his opinion.  “I suppose you wouldn’t notice- you’ve always been able to touch it whenever you wished.”

Sandor took a breath and just held it, because… seven hells, she was _killing_ him.  Every word was just so loaded that he almost could believe she was doing it intentionally, except he knew with absolute certainty that she had no knowledge of the things she spoke of.  It was all in his head, he knew that, and he just had to figure out how to cope with it, some technique to soothe his anger without scaring the girl.

“Stop playing with it!” he bellowed.            

“But you said I had to learn…”

“I didn’t mean you should play with it!”

She looked up at him then, pleading with her big innocent eyes for his understanding. She didn’t know what she was doing to him; of course she didn’t, now could she?  It was small consolation, though, and he found himself angry with her though he knew it wasn’t her fault.

“Fuck, just put it down till I can show you what to do. No, put it down.  Put it in your lap.”

“But I like touching it,” she pouted, jutting her bottom lip out just a little.

_I could give you something to touch._

No, no, he couldn’t, and he wasn’t about to say such a thing, either. If there was anything he’d learned in the past two days, it was his new appreciation for silence.  It seemed every time he opened his mouth she managed to fluster him in some way, and even though he knew she wasn’t doing it on purpose, he also knew that the only way to prevent it was to just not talk.  At all.

Just as soon as they cleared a few things up first.

“We’re heading back to the road,” he rasped dispassionately, forcing himself to calm down. “And we need to have a story.” 

“A story?”

“Yes- who we are, where we’re going, that sort of thing.” When the girl nodded in agreement, he continued.  “So, what would you like your new name to be?”

“Lyanna,” she said immediately, smiling as if she were proud of herself. He should have known- she was probably thinking that this was exactly the kind of thing they did in songs, and instead of picking a common name she picked one that could get her recognized.

“You can’t be a Stark,” he growled irritably.

She sighed at him just as irritably and thought a bit more about her new name. “Dawn,” she said after a few moments, and he nodded his approval.  That would do.  “And what will your name be?”

“I don’t need a name, you can call me ‘father.’”

_“Father?”_

“Yes. I’m your father, you’re my daughter.  You’ve decided to become a septa, I’m taking you to a mother’s house in Gulltown because my sister lives there and you would rather be there than stay in our hometown of Tumbleton.”

He slowed Stranger down to a walk and looked down at her to see if she was listening; judging by the way she was wrinkling her little nose, she’d definitely heard all he’d said.

_“A septa?”_

“Yes.  That’s the story we’re telling, and only if someone asks- most of the time they won’t.  We’ll be fine for a while, still too far from the road.  But you need to keep your hair covered when others are around, and I’ll need to keep my face covered.  Which means you need to do all the talking.  And you’re a piss-poor liar, so you should probably start practicing.”

She was looking him directly in the eyes, he could tell, but _his_ eyes were watching the road ahead.  “We need to have a story to tell people, and the one we’re going with is… you’re my father?”

“Yes.”

“Because _that’s_ the story that makes the most sense?” she pressed.

“Yes,” he growled again, trying to let her know the discussion was over, but she just narrowed her eyes at him, studying his face.  

“Why don’t we tell people you’re my _grandfather?”_ she suggested unhelpfully.  “And we’re going to the Quiet Isles, because you’ll be dying soon.  Because you’re so very old.”  He gave her a look that would surely make the Stranger himself shrink in fear but she met his gaze unperturbed, and after a few seconds she shook her head.  “Doesn’t it make more sense to say that we’re married?”

“No, it does not. People take one look at us and think ‘why did that girl marry that monster?’  And they start looking for signs that maybe you don’t belong with me.  And later they _remember_ things.  Tell them I’m your father, they won’t give two shits.”

“No, I don’t think so,” she said nonchalantly before turning away.

“You don’t _think_ so?” he echoed, incredulous.

She nodded at him as if he’d just acquiesced to her demand, which he clearly had not. “I already have a father,” she chirped.  “Or _had_ a father.  I don’t need another.  You’ll be my husband.”

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” he barked loudly, but she remained unbothered. “You’re supposed to do as I say, and every buggering thing I tell you to do, you completely ignore it.  Seven hells, you used to be such an obedient little thing.  Remember how you used to do whatever people told you?  Remember how I used to scare the piss out of you?  How you couldn’t even look at me without shaking?  What the fuck hap…?”

He could have expanded on that thought for longer- days, even- but the sudden friction she caused by shifting in her seat made him cough in surprise; whatever it was he was _trying_ to say was completely forgotten.

They rode in silence for a few minutes before she looked back up at him and he sighed. “Fine, I’m not your father,” he relented, clearly unhappy.  "Just don't say anything that'll make them remember us."

If he’d looked at her at all he would have seen her triumphant smirk.


	5. The Night at the Inn

The sun was going down by the time they entered a small village and he slid her inelegantly from Stranger’s back, handing her some coins.

“Go get us a room and some food. Keep your hood up.”  She looked at the coins then up at him, squinting her eyes in confusion; they’d yet to stay in an inn so far, he always said it was too dangerous.  But now he was just glaring down at her with that impossibly unreadable expression before he heaved an exaggerated sigh.  “Go in there and tell them you want a room and to send up some food.  Then wait for me in the room, I’ll come find you.  And ask for a bath- you stink.”

She bristled at the last part- he didn’t exactly smell like a rose, either- but did as she was told, only deviating enough from the instructions to ask for a room with the largest bed possible- her husband was a big man, she explained. The innkeep raised his eyebrow at her and looked to ask a question but ultimately didn’t, just lead her upstairs amid a steady stream of friendly chatter.

She didn’t wait for him in their room as he instructed though she couldn’t say why, just stood on the stairwell and waited for him there as workers passed her repeatedly with buckets of hot water for her bath. After several tense minutes she saw him enter, his eyes scanning the room, taking it all in as he so often did whenever they stopped.  And then, inexplicably, his gaze landed on a girl- a serving wench- and he approached her.  She saw the girl’s sudden look of horror, but then Sandor said a few things to her, handed her some coins, and the girl was suddenly pleased to make his acquaintance.

Sansa's stomach churned as she realized the significance of what she had just witnessed. Had he paid for what she thought he had paid for?  Would he really do that here, now, knowing full well that she was waiting for him upstairs?  That his _wife_ was waiting for him.  Surely he wouldn’t…  Oh, gods, this was her own fault; she had teased him so much that she’d pushed him right into the arms of a whore, and the churning in her stomach turned leaden, creeping up her throat and threatening to choke her. 

His eyes fell on her suddenly, and she saw him turn and say something to the serving wench- who looked to be of an age with herself, which somehow made it even worse- and the girl nodded and smiled and walked away. When he approached the stairwell he looked at her like he was angry.  At being caught?  She didn’t care.

“Didn’t I tell you to wait in the room, girl?”

“Do I look a girl to you?” she challenged him then turned to ascend the stairs before he could answer, swinging her hips a little just because she could.

He dumped their bags unceremoniously on the floor as he surveyed their room- the wooden tub filled with rapidly-cooling water, the overstuffed mattress barely big enough for the two of them, the sad little table with two chairs underneath a small and dirty window. It was not the nicest place she’d ever stayed in, by far, but it was much nicer than the woods. 

“You told the innkeep to bring up food?” She nodded at his question.  “Be here soon, I suppose.  Go on, wash up before the water gets cold.”

He left without another word, before she could speak at all- which was probably for the best, because she wanted to beg him not to go downstairs to that girl, ask him to stay up here with her instead. But she was a lady and should not stoop to begging, so she remained silent.  As soon as he was gone she felt that same unease in her stomach… until she heard him lean heavily against the door and slide to the ground, and the sorrow of a heartbeat earlier was quickly replaced with relief. 

And… something else, something unnamable, but there was just _something_ about undressing and bathing, all the while knowing he was right on the other side of the door.  She liked him there, protecting her and not off gallivanting with pretty young strangers in the common room, and just the thought of it gave her a heady flush of power she couldn’t really explain.  Was he listening?  Was he pressing his ear to the door and imagining her naked, picturing her standing in the bath, lathering her body with soap?  Was he enjoying it as much as she was? 

But then she remembered that the Hound was no innocent maid, and there was no way he’d be interested in such a simple titillation, not when he’d experienced so much more, not when ‘much more’ was right downstairs waiting for him. So she finished bathing quickly but thoroughly in the tepid water before dressing into her sleep shift, opening the door to find him bearing food. 

The evening meal was a very simple chowder of onions and potatoes and other unidentifiable vegetables but no meat; Sansa thought it was the most delicious thing she’d eaten in ages and she sopped up every bit of it, even nibbled a little on the trencher, and she felt… good.  She was clean and comfortable, she had a nice warm bed and a full belly, and her companion- her husband- right next to her, taking her home and keeping her safe.  She couldn’t remember the last time she felt so good, so _happy_ , and she smiled in his direction though he didn’t seem to notice. 

When his meal was done he stood and stretched as best he could, arms bent and hands pressed against the ceiling and back creaking in protest. She tried not to watch him, truly, but he seemed to fill the space entirely, warming her as much as the wine seeping into her veins.

_My lord husband.  Would it truly be so bad?_

“I’m going to need you to leave the room for a while,” he yawned.

Sansa’s stomach dropped clear to the floor even as her heart leapt to her throat. “What?”

“Did you see that girl I was talking to earlier?” he asked lazily, completely unashamed.

“Yes,” she said hesitantly, and he nodded sleepily at her reply. Surely he didn’t mean… here… now…He couldn’t!

Sandor flopped down on the bed and reached for a boot, pulling it off with minimal effort then turning his attention to the other boot. “Put on your cloak and go find her.  Tell her I sent you and remind her I already paid so she’d better…”

“No.”

The look of wide-eyed confusion was one she had never seen on him before, but it was quickly replaced with his usual look of irritation.

“What,” he snapped, more statement than question.

“I won’t go,” she answered, lifting her chin and looking him in the eye so he’d know she meant it.

He seemed baffled, like he couldn’t understand what she was so upset about, which only made her angrier. Surely he didn’t think she would just _accept_ this.  She would never accept it even if they _weren’t_ married. 

“I will not be going and fetching your _whore_ ,” she spat. 

“Why in seven hells _not_?” he demanded. _Oh gods, he’s serious_.

“I have to _sleep_ here,” she hissed at him. 

He sat up and laughed at her. “You think there’s never been a whore in here?  There was probably one in here an hour ago.  What difference does it make?”

“It’s disgusting,” she spat. “And disrespectful.  And…unsafe.  How are you supposed to protect me if I’m out there and you’re in here? _Distracted_.”

“Relax, it won’t take long,” he muttered, then laughed loudly at his own jape.  Sansa didn’t think it was funny, whatever it meant, and crossed her arms. 

“You can’t,” she stated flatly.

“I _can’t_?” he growled through clenched teeth, rising from the bed with a murderous look in his eye.  She wasn’t scared, though; she was too angry to be scared.  “You can’t _stop_ me.” 

“I’m your _wife_ ,” she shot back.  “You have to do as I wish.”

“Is that how you do things in the north? Cross your legs and geld your husbands?”  He was mumbling under his breath but she could still hear every bitter word as he pulled his boots back on, and she realized suddenly that he meant to leave. _To go to a brothel?_   She rushed to the door to block his path.

He looked up at her, surprised, before his face broke into a cold sneer. “Get out of the way, girl.”

“No.”

He approached her menacingly so she drew herself up taller and stuck her chin out in defiance, eyes never leaving his. She should be afraid of him, she knew, but she was more afraid that he would leave.  “I can’t believe you would even _think_ about getting a whore right now!  How dare you!” 

“How _dare_ I?”  He leaned in close to her so they were eye to eye.  “Unless you want to help me out, then get out of my way.”

“Help you with _what_?” she asked without thinking.

He stood up and stepped backwards with a bark of laughter. “Gods, you’re stupid.”

“ _You’re_ stupid,” she shot back.  “And awful.  And… I _hate_ you.”

“Oh, no, please,” he mocked. “I can’t handle your _tongue lashing_.” 

“You’re a terrible husband,” she hissed. She was beyond emotional at this point and the words were pouring out of her before she could even think about them though she knew full well this was not how a lady should act.  He wasn’t exactly acting as a husband should, either, but… oh, gods, she just couldn’t let him leave.

“You’re a terrible wife,” he countered.

“Why? Because I won’t fuck you?”

He flinched in surprise, and she was momentarily proud of herself for taking him off his guard, but he recovered quickly and leaned in again.

“That’s _exactly_ why,” he growled.  “Now get out of my way!” 

“NO!”

He grabbed her roughly at the elbows and pulled her away from the door.

“Let go of me!” she commanded, and struggled against his grasp. He was furious with her, she could see it, but she was just as furious with him and never let her eyes leave his.  How could he just walk out of here and go get a whore?  How could he just leave her here, weeping, while he ran off to… 

He pushed her on the bed and turned his back to leave, but she sat up immediately. “Sandor, _don’t!”_ He didn’t stop, only unlatched the door and pulled it open.  “I won’t let you back in,” she threatened, her last effort to make him stay.

He looked at her with a sneer. “So?”  Then he shut the door.

As soon as she heard the door catch she let out a strangled cry and fell back on the bed to sob. How could he?  How _could_ he?  She was his wife, damn him, whether he accepted it or not, and even if she wasn’t she deserved more respect than that.  Had he truly expected her to go downstairs by herself, to fetch his whore for him, and wait while they… ugh!  It was demeaning… and embarrassing… and so inconsiderate.  Oh, and it was unsafe!  What if something happened to her?  Or to him?  What if he was recognized?  He was infuriating, and just… _insufferable._ But even as she was raging against his thoughtlessness, something new occurred to her. 

 _I did this._ She knew it was true, knew her teasing had pushed him away from her, knew that she’d been saying and doing inappropriate things with no intention of ever following through with any of it.  And he knew it, knew she’d be unwilling, so he went looking elsewhere.  Oh, but that shouldn’t matter, should it?  There were so many _other_ reasons why his behavior was abhorrent, reasons that had nothing to do with their marital state, though if she was being totally honest with herself that was the only reason that mattered to her.  Didn’t matter to him, though- he had completely disregarded all reason, had completely disregarded her wishes, and that made her feel worst of all. 

 _How long will he be gone_ , she wondered, then reminded herself that she didn’t want to know and really didn’t care anyway. _He doesn’t care, I don’t care_. 

The door opened and she sat up quickly, cursing herself for not latching it when he left. He walked in glaring at her, wineskin in hand, and she swiped at her tears, hoping he wouldn’t see.  If he did, though, he didn’t show it, and closed the door again, locking it behind him.  Wordlessly, he walked to the window and sat, propping his feet on the table before opening the wineskin and taking a long pull.  He wouldn’t look at her, or talk to her, and apparently the argument was over.

 _Did he… has he…_ She swallowed hard and eyed her prickly companion, took in his irritated state and the way he was ignoring her.  She may be innocent, but even _she_ knew that he only had time to get wine before coming back.  And she was… relieved.  And grateful.  And _pleased_ that he’d returned to her, that her silly teasing may have pushed him away, but not so far away that she couldn’t bring him back.  

After a while she crawled under the covers and gave him one last look. “Don’t stay up too late,” she said gently before turning her back on him and sinking into the lumpy bed.  She couldn’t help but smile- it was the kind of thing her mother used to say to her father all the time- and on that happy thought she finally closed her eyes and went quickly to sleep.


	6. The Retaliation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had no intention of rolling this out so soon, but I guess I get bored too easily. :-(

It was never going to work, he knew that.

He had thought it before, of course, but never truly believed it until recently, when the girl had become completely incorrigible and lost all sense of reason. It wasn’t his intention to lose his temper like that; quite the opposite, in fact.  He’d heard some bad news about her brothers while he stabled Stranger and had planned to treat her gently, knowing he would eventually have to upset her.  He _told_ himself he would be kind to her, that that was what she needed during such a difficult time, and then she went and started yelling at him and he couldn’t help but yell right back.

All he wanted to do last night was take a buggering bath; hells, he had even paid someone to keep an eye on her in private, had specifically picked a young wench of a similar age so that maybe they could have one of those girlish conversations she was so fond of. But did she let him say as much?  No, she’d hopped straight to the conclusion that he was waiting for a whore.  He didn’t know exactly what he was trying to accomplish by letting her think that, but her epic fit had been amusing in its own way since was shockingly passionate about the topic.  Served her right, too, for even _thinking_ he would do something like that.  But then fighting with her, seeing her face flushed in anger, standing there in that buggering sleep shift and calling him ‘husband,’ yelling, pushing… he wanted her _badly_. 

After she had sunk under the blankets he noticed she had left plenty of room for him to settle in next to her. He hadn’t actually thought they would share a bed, but obviously _she_ did, and he wasn’t going to argue. _‘Don’t stay up too late.’_ Ha!  Like they were just an old married couple.  In more ways than one, apparently, since she had yelled at him, forbade him to leave, and he had ultimately let her win.  Or at least, he let her _think_ she had won.  She didn’t act smug about it, though.  And she was sharing her bed with him, which he figured was as close as they would get to a truce.  So when the wine was gone and he was certain she was truly asleep, he crawled under the covers next to her and laid down with a sigh- _my wife_ \- before closing his eyes and drifting off. 

Somewhere in the night he had the unpleasant feeling of being strangled by some wiry creature and woke himself up trying to fight it off. When his eyes opened he realized the creature was her, and that she had managed to tangle herself in him as if she were a hare in a trap.  And even though he was desperate to touch her he carefully pulled her away before she could wake and recoil in horror.  Because she _would_ recoil in horror, he knew, and that would surely kill him.

He’d slept till morning after that, this time waking to find her hand in his. There was something sweet about it- her tiny perfect hand in his gigantic rough one, and he remembered when she’d pressed their hands together and said they looked like they went together.  It had been so absurd at the time and annoyed him something awful, but now with their fingers intertwined he rather wished that she wasn’t so very wrong.  He _liked_ holding her hand, wouldn’t mind if he got to do it more often.  And it was nothing, really, not anything she could object to, so he held her hand for as long as he wanted before finally getting out of bed.

He dressed and snuck out before she woke, needing to put some distance between them while he digested the information he’d learned the previous night, tried to think of the best way to tell her what he’d heard. So that’s how he found himself at a table in the common room, breaking his fast and thinking, once again, that this was never going to work.

She finally descended the stairs, head held high under the hood of her cloak, and approached him at the table. He had his feet propped up in the chair across from him, and she put one finger on his boots and pushed them off before wiping the seat down and sitting.  Her eyes never left his, and it felt, oddly, like some sort of challenge.

“Sleep well, my lord?” she asked simply. Sandor huffed. _At least she’s not acting smug about it._

“You need to eat. Quickly.”  He motioned for someone to bring her food, and soon she was nibbling at her meal, pushing food around with her fork and taking tiny sips from her cup.

“You eat like a damn bird,” he grumbled at her.

“You say the sweetest things,” she mumbled back, and she gave him a look- _that look_ \- the one that said _I’m not afraid of you_.  He was just about to respond with some eloquent but biting remark when they were interrupted by the nosy innkeep.

“Ah, good morrow fair Dawn. How did you sleep?”

“Very well, thank you Donnel,” the girl responded pleasantly, smiling up at the old man with such genuine affection that Sandor half considered slaying him.

“And this must be your husband, Jaime,” the man continued, and this time Sandor wanted to kill the both of them. “I can see now why you wanted the biggest bed.”

“Indeed,” the girl laughed softly. “Apologies, but we’re in a hurry and must soon be on our way.”

“Oh yes, of course. It was a pleasure to have made your acquaintance my dear.”

“Likewise,” she responded warmly, and the buggering innkeep finally took his leave. It wasn’t until after they were well and truly alone again that she finally met her companion’s eyes and gave him a little smile- a fake one, nothing like the sweet smile she’d just given a complete stranger. 

“Think you’re pretty fucking funny, don’t you?” he growled at her, because… what in seven hells was she doing, chatting up the innkeep and naming him after the _Kingslayer?_

“I don’t know what you mean,” she answered primly, turning her gaze down to her plate again.

“You act too bloody highborn,” he snarled low, barely containing his rage, not only because she really was acting too highborn but because he was angry and needed to show it. “You have to stop that.”

“Do you have a napkin?” she asked, pointing delicately to a drop of water sliding down her cup.

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” he hissed. “Of all the things to worry about, you’re worried you might _spill?_ You’re supposed to worry about keeping your fucking head.”  She seemed to be ignoring him, concentrating on the damn drip as it slid down the side of her cup.  “Are you even listening, you empty-headed bird?  You act too damn highborn, someone will notice, and then wha…”

Sandor flinched in surprise and knocked his knees on the table when Sansa licked the drop off the cup, running her tiny tongue from the bottom all the way to the top in one wicked motion. She then took another dainty sip before looking at him in surprise, realizing belatedly he had stopped talking.

“What is it?” she whispered, eyes wide with maidenly virtue.

“We’re… going… now,” was all he could manage, grabbing their bags and leaving her to chase after him.

He tossed her up on Stranger with very little concern for her comfort, then swung up behind her, jostling her roughly in the process. She gave him a stern look but uttered no protest, which was good- he would have ignored it anyway.

“Isn’t this the direction we came from?” she asked warily as they left the inn.

“Yes.”

“But… why?”

“Your mother and brother are at Riverrun. We’re headed there.”  To his relief she didn’t argue, though she did look disappointed. 

He felt far less… stimulated… by the time they were back on the road and well on their way, but the silence between them- and her body against him- left plenty of time to reflect on the previous few days. And instead of thinking about how to tell her the bad news about Winterfell his mind was wandering in the lewdest possible direction, and he soon found himself wound tight in the same familiar way. 

She wasn’t helping things at all. She’d undone her braid and was running fingers through the waves, like she’d done before, but this time she seemed a bit more… animated.  And she was so beautiful, damn her, with her auburn tresses shining brightly in the sun.  Every time the wind blew, her hair would float across his chest, bringing her scent with it, and then she’d toss her head as if trying to collect the strands.  Out of the corner of his eye he could see her sweet smile as she turned her face up to the sun, tilting her head from side to side, exposing the tender skin at her neck….

“If you can’t keep your fucking hair covered I’m going to cut it off.”

She gave him the other look- the _wounded_ look -then yanked her hood over her head.  Instead of feeling relief, though, he just felt annoyed.

“I should have known you’d rather keep your hair than your fucking head. Where’s your sense, girl?”  He should hold his words, he knew, but holding _himself_ back had been too much work.  “You have no idea what you have ahead of you.  We won’t be sleeping in any more fucking inns, I can promise you that.  Everyone will be looking for you.  Looking for me, too.  Fuck it, you probably think this is a game.  Some grand adventure for beautiful maidens and gallant knights.  It’s not, and you’d be smart to rea….”

Sansa dropped her head and shifted nervously in his lap, effectively grinding her hips hard against his crotch. Seven hells, was she doing that on purpose?

“Are you doing that on purpose?” he bellowed.

She flinched at his voice, then turned her head to look at him, eyes and mouth open in confusion. “Doing what?” she asked.

He was far too agitated to answer without yelling, so he stayed silent, but she must have taken it as some sort of invitation.

“Do you want to play a game?” she asked. He gave her his very best murderous look but she was used to it by now, and continued anyway.  “You know… to pass the time.”

A game. Stranger help him, he would _love_ to play a game with her, though not any kind of game she had in mind, not any kind she had ever played before.

She dropped her chin to her shoulder and looked at him through her lashes, a move that might seem flirtatious if he didn’t know better. “Do you want to play… Come Into My Castle?”

Fucking hells, this was never going to work.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah, yeah, the game's getting old at this point. It's almost over, I promise.


	7. The Realization

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> All good things must come to a screeching halt.

Sansa had loved training Lady- she’d raised the wolf herself, from a pup, and that had helped them bond. She was surprised how quickly she had learned to love Lady, and just as surprised to find that their dispositions were so closely aligned that training her hadn’t felt like a chore at all.

Training this _man_ , however, had been a completely different experience.  Part of it was because she was entirely dependent on him- for _everything_.  Sansa had always had people take care of her, but now that her care was wholly trusted to this one foul-mouthed person she felt a little uncomfortable.  And a little helpless.  So she really liked the idea of being able to bring him to heel.  It was unwise, she knew, because he could bite her hand at any moment, take her fleeting power away, and then where would she be? 

The other part of it, of course, was that she truly didn’t know what she was doing, though she had to admit she was doing a pretty good job of faking it. That trick with the cup this morning had been perfect and she smirked again at the memory of it- he had hit his knees on the table, for heavens’ sake.

“What’s funny?” he grumbled behind her, and she looked at him in surprise because she didn’t know she had laughed.

“Um… nothing.”

 _That’s a dangerous game you play._ It was his voice in her head, even though he had never said that, even though he couldn’t possibly know she was playing with him.  And she _was_ playing with him- she knew that.  But the game was far too much fun to stop playing now, more fun than any self-respecting lady should ever understand.  And besides, it helped her pass the time, and helped her feel like she was in control and not so helpless.  And he deserved it.  It was his fault she’d had to resort to these tactics, his fault she had to fight this war with him.  And that’s all it was, really- her trying to stay afloat during a war.

She’d woken that morning at first light, her eyes blinking open to see him still sleeping soundly right beside her. He’d looked so peaceful, so at ease, no trace of his usual scowl while he was resting.  She’d never seen him like that before, and spent long moments studying his face- the pits and ridges of his scars, his hooked nose and heavy brow, the way his chapped lips parted slightly at every breath.  The peace of the morning must have affected her profoundly, because at that moment she decided he wasn’t so bad, not only as a man but maybe even as a husband.  He treated her well enough, better than she expected, and when she’d told him not to go to a whore he hadn’t; that counted for something, didn’t it?  So on impulse she’d sought out his hand and laced her fingers with his, noting how warm and strong and perfect it felt before drifting back to sleep.

When she’d woken a second time he was gone, and as she got dressed for the day she had a new revelation. She’d been so happy he came back to her- had not gone down to that _woman-_ that she’d been relieved and grateful that he’d acquiesced to her wishes.  But now, in the light of day, she was angry that she ever had to say anything in the first place.  She shouldn’t have to _tell_ him not to go to a whore; he should just _know_ that.

It was on that thought that she had descended the stairs to meet him, though she wasn’t entirely certain he would be in the common room. She mostly just wanted to rebel against his directive to stay in the room, make him angry in any way she could, but instead of raging against her he’d been almost calm.  Even after he found out she’d renamed him ‘Jaime.’ 

The ride today was quiet, unsurprisingly, and she wanted to ask him to tell her everything he’d heard in the inn but also wanted to ignore him, still miffed about the previous night. So their only interactions had been when she felt she needed to train him; she would make him a well-behaved Hound whether he wished it or not. 

They stopped for the night right before the sun went down, Sandor once again finding a perfect spot- a small clearing that was secluded and grassy and pleasantly warm. There was a little stream flowing through it where he led Stranger as soon as they dismounted, and she kicked her shoes off and followed him, enjoying the feel of grass between her toes.

The stream bubbled in a way that tickled Sansa’s ears, and she could see tiny minnows swimming just below the surface. _This is nice_.  She sighed contentedly, trying to absorb this one moment in the journey.  But the skin on her legs soon began to crawl, and then it felt like fire, and she lifted her skirt and gasped at the sight.

“Seven hells, Sansa!”

He scooped her up faster than she could have thought possible- if she was thinking at all- and sat her on a large rock to swat the ants off of her. And she just sat there, patiently waiting for him to make it better, watching him run his hands over her calves and feet to wipe the biting insects away.  A man touching her like that would be considered inappropriate, she knew, but somehow his touch was more fatherly than husbandly and not inappropriate at all.  For some reason, that bothered her.

“You treat me like a child,” she complained.

“You _act_ like a child,” he grumbled back at her, whacking again at her skirt.

Well. She couldn’t really argue with _that_ , not in her current situation.  She had wandered into an anthill like a simpleton, didn’t even have the sense to move, then let him swat the ants away while she watched helplessly.  Just like a child.  It made her angry, really, to know he was right, but her anger was misplaced and she retaliated without thinking.

He was still looking down at her skirt when she touched a toe to his stomach and moved it downwards, running her shin firmly between his legs all the way up to her knee, and he looked up at her in horrified surprise.

“Not a child,” she said, meeting his eyes.

His expression became dark and she could see him tense in realization, the wheels turning in his head as he put it all together. He was angry, _really_ angry; she hadn’t seen him so furious in ages, but she would not look away, continued to meet his stormy eyes with her own.  He rose slowly to his full height, glaring, towering over her and shaking with rage… then turned quickly on his heel and stormed off into the woods.

 _Good boy_ , she smirked at his back, trying hard not to snort because _that_ would be unladylike. 

But it was a hollow victory. There was no denying that he now fully understood what power she had over him- which admittedly was not a lot- so the little game she’d grown to love was over.  Or… maybe not.  Just because he knew didn’t necessarily mean she had to stop.  She could probably still control him using the same techniques; if anything it meant she didn’t have to be so discrete about it, maybe she could be a little meaner.  Just like…

_You're here to answer for your brother's latest treasons._

The memory of that day in the throne room came over her suddenly, and she was sick with the realization that she finally understood what had happened. She never could figure out why Joffrey tortured her when she had done nothing wrong, always seeking her out to punish her for things she never did.  But now she could see clearly that it wasn’t about _her_ , it was about _him_.  Any time there was a threat to his power he would turn to her.  He’d beat and humiliate her to make himself feel better, to make himself feel powerful again, and he would do it just because he could.  He used her; just like she was using the Hound. 

 _Oh gods, I’m no better than Joffrey_.  She knew all along that the things she had been doing were unladylike, but she had pushed those thoughts away, telling herself that her actions were necessary for survival.  But she was lying to herself- she didn’t toy with the man for survival, she did it because she wanted to, because it made her feel better, made her feel powerful when she usually felt so weak. 

She remembered how horrified she was when Cersei told her about her ‘woman’s weapon’, yet now she was wielding it unashamed. She never wanted to play the games they played in King’s Landing, but here she was playing along, just for fun, just because she could. _I’m a Stark; I have to be better than that._

The more she thought about it, the more she felt… terrible. After everything he’d done for her she was repaying his kindness with cruelty; he may snap and growl and generally be unpleasant, but he was taking care of her the best he could.  She _knew_ that.  He was protecting her, and she was punishing him for it; it was almost too shameful to think about anymore.

Her tactics may have worked to silence him, but was that really what she wanted? True, she didn’t want to be chastised or yelled at, but running him off, driving him away, wasn’t what she wanted, either.  Grinding into his lap might make him stop yelling, but being polite is what was slowly drawing him closer to her, and ultimately that was what she really wanted. At least when she used her courtesies he didn’t avoid her.

Sansa sat alone in the small clearing, her only companion the huge horse munching grass near the creek. She set their bedrolls out before the sun went down, but still he did not return. _Guess we’re not eating tonight._ She briefly wondered if he had left her for good, abandoned to fend for her own, but quickly assured herself that he would never leave his horse.  She grimaced in disappointment- he probably _did_ care more for his horse than he did for her.  Especially now.

It felt like ages since the sun went down, and he still had not returned. With no food, no fire, and no reason to stay up, she retired for the evening, sinking sadly into her bedroll, feeling for the second night in a row that she’d run him off.  Only this time she no longer felt it was something he deserved; this time she was completely ashamed of herself.

No sooner had she relaxed than he appeared, a shadowy outline looming over her and taking her by surprise. How he could move so quietly through the woods she would never understand, yet there he was, hands on the ground on either side of her head as he leaned in.  She could barely make out his expression but she could tell he was still angry, could see it plain as day, and for the first time she felt like maybe his anger was fully justified.

His lip curled up into a sneer as he moved even closer, their noses nearly touching, and her heart was beating so rapidly it was near impossible to breathe. She knew what he was doing.  She had pushed him hard, now he was pushing back, taunting her in the same way she had taunted him to see which one of them would yield first.

So she didn’t yield.

“Stop playing games, girl,” he commanded.

“Stop being mean… my lord,” she countered.

He looked surprised by her reaction, or lack of reaction, and maybe even a little… impressed, and as his eyes drifted over her face and down to her mouth she felt her frenzied heart shudder to a stop. He huffed once and tilted his head to get just a little closer, his breath ghosting over her lips; he could kiss her right now, if he wanted to, and she thought maybe from the way he was looking at her he _did_ want to.  But then, inexplicably, he withdrew, retreating an arm’s distance away to flop down on top of his own bedroll, leaving her alone and oddly unsatisfied though she couldn’t say why.

 _Is that it, are we done fighting?_ It seemed like every time they went to sleep they were angry with each other, and she was tired of it. She wanted to reach out and take his hand like she had done that morning, but she knew he would think she was playing games with him, so she didn’t. She kept her hands to herself and eventually drifted off to sleep.


	8. The Confession

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> PLEASE READ MY NOTES AT THE END!

He had sat alone out in the woods till the sun went down, waiting for her to retire, because he didn’t want to talk to her, didn’t want to see her, just wanted to say what he needed to before they went to sleep.   And so he’d had a lot of time to think, and a lot of time to realize that she’d been playing with him. _Why_ she was playing with him he couldn’t understand, but he’d never understood women anyway- and the little bird was definitely more woman than girl now.

When finally he approached her he had tried to scare a little sense into her, tried to show her what her little game had earned her, wanted to get dangerously close to the line without crossing it. But she hadn’t even flinched, had only searched his eyes in the same way he searched hers, then countered his demand with one of her own. _Stop being mean_.  The request came as a surprise, mostly because he hadn’t expected her to say anything at all.  But when she said it, he understood.  He was mean to her, so she was mean to him, punishing him in the only way she could.  And as angry as he had been about it, he was also… a little impressed.  And worried.

He woke up that morning to find that she’d wriggled out of her bedroll and slipped her hand into his, just like the previous day. And while it wasn’t entirely unwelcome he still pulled away from her so he could get up and pack- after telling her to stop playing with him, the last thing he needed was her thinking he had sought out her hand while she was sleeping.  When she finally roused from her sleep, she cast a nervous glance at him before getting herself ready to go. 

Soon, they were back on Stranger, moving along in silence, neither one daring to say anything, each of them alone in their thoughts. He looked at the back of her head, her dainty hands clasped in her lap.  All those things she’d done… how could he have missed it?  He’d always been good at spotting a lie, but somehow she’d slipped her little game in right under his nose.  Now that he thought about it, she had been just a little _too_ wide-eyed, a little _too_ innocent.   

“So…” he began. “That whole shifting-around-to-get-comfortable thing you do?”  If he thought she’d be embarrassed about it, he was wrong.  She just rolled her eyes and gave him a pointed look before rolling her eyes away.  And that was all the answer he needed- she’d done it on purpose.

“And… that little trick with the cup?” She pursed her lips and raised her eyebrows but otherwise didn’t respond.  That one really bothered him- not at the time, of course, because he assumed she had done it on accident.  But the meaning behind the action was unmistakable, and if she’d done it on purpose… he’d fucking kill the man who taught her that.  “Where’d you learn to do that?” he asked her, though he was fairly certain he didn’t want to know.

She winced and closed her eyes before looking up at him with a sigh. “I saw someone do that once in King’s Landing.  She was talking with Ser Arys, and he seemed to like it.  I thought it was stupid but… what do I know.”

“Nothing, apparently,” he grumbled, but she just looked at him with a confused look and shook her head again. And he was relieved, he hated to admit- she was only pretending to know what she was doing.  “And the tongue lashing?”

“Oh, now it’s _my_ fault that you don’t know what a tongue lashing is?”  

“I know what it is,” he snapped, then leered down at her. “Just different than what _you_ think it is.”

She bowed her head and pressed her lips together to hide her smile, pink tinting her cheeks; she might not know exactly what he was talking about, but she knew enough to blush like that. _Good_. 

“And… that thing with your sleep shift?”

Her head snapped up and she gave him a wide-eyed, worried look. “What about my sleep shift?”

She didn’t know. Seven hells, she’d had no idea until he brought it up.  “I can see right through it.”

Her mouth dropped open in surprise before she covered her face completely with both hands, but he could still see her blush in her ears and across her neck. _Sweet little bird._ He couldn’t help laughing at her, and much to his surprise she started laughing with him.

“Guess I’ll be sleeping in my clothes from now on,” she said with a giggle.

“No, you should be comfortable when you sleep,” he smirked, and she laughed harder and louder. He couldn’t think of a time he’d ever made a girl laugh- not like that, not for real- and he was reminded, again, that somewhere along the way she had stopped being scared of him.  He still hurt her, he knew, but he didn’t frighten her any more.

“Can we stop fighting now?”

“Were we fighting?” he asked.

She screwed her face up, but never let her eyes leave his. “ _Weren’t_ we?”

He sighed and shook his head, not at all certain what to say. “I don’t know,” he drawled without looking at her.  “Still not happy I didn’t get to take a bath.”

“You should have taken one at the inn,” she laughed as if she were explaining something obvious to a child.

“I would’ve loved to, but _someone_ wouldn’t leave the damn room.”  Her smile faltered then, her eyelashes fluttering as his words hit home, her thoughts all over her face.  As usual.  “Puzzling it all out, now, are you?”

“That’s why you wanted me to leave?” she asked shyly, clearly abashed. “Why didn’t you just say so?”

“You didn’t let me. And then you started yelling, it was pretty fucking funny.”

“So you let me think…” She didn’t finish, but she didn’t have to.  He was there, he knew exactly what she was thinking, and he had definitely let her think it.  “Why?”

_Because you’re pretty when you’re angry. Because I wanted to know what you thought.  Because I liked making you jealous._

“I already told you. It was funny.”

Her eyes were on him again as if searching for the truth but he refused to look at her, didn’t want her to know that this conversation was unsettling him and he wanted it to be over.

“Sandor?” she started softly, submissively. “I… apologize… for all those things I was doing.  It was… unkind, and… you don’t deserve that.”

 _Unkind?_   Hah.  He hadn’t liked it one bit, that was true, but he couldn’t say it was _unkind_ ; if anything he’d say he _did_ deserve it.  He wanted to tell her he understood.  He wanted to tell her it didn’t matter.  Instead, when he opened his mouth he told her-

“You’re really fucking stupid, you know that?” Gods, why did he have to be such an arse all the time?

She gave him that look- the _wounded_ look- and swallowed hard.  “Be nice.”

“I _am_ being nice, I’m trying to tell you not to be so fucking stupid.  You can’t be doing those things, men will get ideas, men will hurt you and not think twice about it.”

She looked up at him through lowered lashes and shook her head before turning away. “Not you.”

What the buggering hells did _that_ mean?  “You don’t know that,” he growled.  How could she know that; _he_ didn’t even know that.

She glanced up at him quickly. “Yes I do.”

And he understood, then, why she wasn’t afraid of him: she trusted him. Which was stupid, even he knew that, but he’d already called her stupid and she told him to be nice.  So maybe… he’d just have to let her trust him.  Which was bad, because he still just wanted to get her naked, to feel her skin against his.  Maybe he could find a way to sneak a peek down her dress again… wait. 

“Look at me,” he said gruffly, and she turned her gaze up at him, confused. He held her eyes for a moment, made sure she was really looking, because he wanted to see her face for this.

“The other night… when you were fussing with the bedroll…” She raised her eyebrows at him as if she didn’t quite understand the question, but then she smiled and looked away with a giggle.  “Fucking hells, little bird,” he grumbled.

“Made you stop yelling at me,” she tittered nervously.

“That’s all it takes? All I have to do is yell at you and you’ll let me look down your dress?”

“Oh, no, you told me to stop playing games, remember?” she said smugly. “Besides, you’ve seen it before.”  He just shook his head at her, and then she stopped smiling and looked at him, perplexed.  “Yes you did.  When Joffrey had me stripped.  You were there.”

He shook his head again but wouldn’t meet her eyes. “I didn’t look.”

It was funny, really, how he went his whole life wishing people would look at him. And now _she_ was looking at him, right at his ugly face, and he found he couldn’t bear it, couldn’t look down and see her, wished she would just stop.  It made him uncomfortable, nervous, and… a little angry.

After a while, she shook her head and turned away with a sigh.

“I’m starting to think you’re not as awful as you pretend to be,” she said quietly. And he wanted to laugh at her, wanted to tell her he was _exactly_ as awful as he pretended to be.  “Oh, I know you’re awful,” she told him, as if she knew his thoughts.  “Mean and hateful, all around.  But… maybe not… _that_ awful.”

Great. Now not only did she trust him, she thought he was… not that awful.  Whatever that meant.   “Want to play a game?” he said, hoping to prove his point.  “How about Come Into My Castle?”

Her baffled expression was absolutely perfect. “I don’t know what that means.”

“You brought it up.”

“Theon used to follow me around and ask me that, but he never _truly_ wanted to play, and Robb and Jon would yell at him to leave me alone.  I don’t understand.  It’s a _children’s_ game.”

“Not the way I play it,” he mumbled.

She shook her head with a smile and leaned in to nudge him.  “Isn’t this easier than fighting?”

Easier? Maybe not.  Nicer, though, for sure.  Still, he just couldn’t bring himself to agree.

“I stood behind that little shit his whole life and always had to bite my tongue. You want me to do the same with you?  Why did I bother leaving?”

He could see her smile fade into concern before she looked away, then they sat in silence for a few moments before she finally replied.

“You can say anything you want to me. Just… try not to be so mean.  Please?  Will you try?”

Fucking hells. Yes, he would try; he’d try anything for her, and she knew it.  So he didn’t bother to answer, she could figure it out for herself.  And besides, there was something else they needed to talk about, something… unpleasant.  But how was he supposed to talk to her when she was looking at him like that, like she was searching him for something?

“I _am_ sorry, Sandor,” she insisted sincerely, and it was almost more than he could handle- the shift of her body towards him, the look on her face, the way her eyes were narrowed and her lips were parted.  He’d seen that look before, plenty of times, though never directed at him.  The looks _he_ usually received were ones of fear- he’d received plenty of those, even from her, even recently.  But now she did not look at him in fear but in… something else.  Why would she look at him like that? 

“Little bird…”

“Yes?”

It seemed she was even closer somehow, face turned up to him, eyes burning into his with no subterfuge, nothing to hide what she wanted of him. She wouldn’t stop him, he knew that, if he pulled her close and kissed her, and his entire body was poised and ready to do just that.  How long had he wanted her, how many times had he imagined kissing her and more, how often had he wanted her to look at him that way?  And now…

“I need to tell you something… about your brothers.”

This time the look she gave him was undoubtedly one of fear.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So... let me tell you a bit about what's up with me lately:
> 
> 1) I'm running a 5k in Savannah this weekend! I'm really excited... about all the fresh seafood I'll be eating. I'll be pretty much absent around here Friday through Monday but on a positive note, I'll be off pretending I'm an athlete. Wish me luck!
> 
> 2) My family is moving. This is a big deal, obviously. Hubby is moving before us and then I'll be behind taking care of the kids and getting the house ready for sale. It's gonna be... tough. But I am so happy I'm moving. The state we currently live in doesn't exactly have the best reputation in the Union. Any time we're in the news it's for something terrible. Any time you see one of those articles that ranks the states by domestic abuse or unemployment or education or fiery interstate deaths, my state is always dangling at the bottom. My dad recently said to me that he's embarrassed to tell people where he lives and I thought 'yeah, me too.' And as much as I want to believe that the EXACT PLACE I live is isolated from the crap the rest of the state deals with, the larger part of me wonders if I just don't know better. So I'm relieved to be getting out of here, even though I like it here, even though the kids are sad and our parents are sad. But the point is... I'll be busy.


	9. The Void

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So... this chapter is not fun, and not much is going on, but it had to happen. And it's pretty short, but I couldn't think of any way to make it longer, and it would have been just making it longer for the heck of it, so I didn't. Obviously. :-)

Sansa was numb.  When the Hound first broached the unpleasant subject she’d had that initial stab of fear, then… nothing.  She hadn’t cried, hadn’t shed a single tear, for what good could it do?  Her brothers were dead, killed by Theon Greyjoy, and there was no way to remedy that.   

Theon Greyjoy. A political prisoner, her mother had said, and not to be trusted.  And Sansa had listened, of course- she always listened to her mother- but a smaller part of her had felt the unfairness of it weigh heavily upon her.  The boy had done nothing at all, but had been torn away from his home and his family to be punished, and _that_ meant he was not to be trusted?  It seemed wrong at the time.  But now… it made sense.

Theon Greyjoy.  He was _like_ a brother, but _not_ a brother.  And now he had murdered her brothers, had stolen her home, her future, her family.  He’d taken so much from her, and yet she couldn’t force herself to feel _anything_.

She’d never felt so empty before, and even though she knew intellectually that it was a craven way to cope with things, she also recognized that she simply did not care.  She couldn’t afford to care, not now, because she couldn’t afford to let anything in.  Any crack in her armor could let in any number of unsavory thoughts.  Thoughts lead to emotions, and emotions lead to misery, and she couldn’t handle any more misery, not now, not ever again. 

So she kept out the memories, because it was the only way to keep out the sorrow.  She kept out the joy, because it was the only way to keep out the pain.  But keeping it all out meant there was nothing left inside.  And she couldn’t even feel bad about that, because she only felt nothing.

But even the absence of emotion was crushing in its own way, and she needed to distract herself.  So she braided her hair, relaced her boots, then undid the ties and relaced them again.  She stared at the passing foliage, the road ahead, the clouds, the occasional bird...  It was the same as every day, really.  Every new tree looked just like the last one, every road seemed like one she’d seen before, every step Stranger took made her body sway like it always did.  It was the same- just the same, day after day the same, always the same.

“I’m bored.”

She expected some sort of snort of irritation, like always, but in truth he barely reacted, and it was several long moments of silence before he finally responded to her statement.

“You could practice with your knife.”

“It’s in my bag,” she drawled, dismissive.

Again, there was no reaction, no rolling of his eyes, no grumbling in displeasure, no lecture about how she was supposed to keep the knife on her _at all times_.  He only reined Stranger to a stop before dismounting and rummaging through her bag.  And soon he was behind her again, the knife in her hand, her hand in her lap, her heart completely empty. 

So now she was playing with the dagger.  She knew it was playing and not practicing, because she wasn’t truly trying to accomplish anything with it, was just holding it to distract her mind.  Playing with it.  And he was making all manner of noises behind her, clearly displeased with her lack of effort, but where that may have bothered her in the past right now it was just… familiar.   

“Why don’t you show me how to use it instead of huffing at my ineptitude?”

So he did.  With a patience he seemed to only recently have discovered, he showed her how to draw the weapon, how to hold it, where to put her hand, her fingers, her thumb, and why.

“This part’s the quillon.  You want to make sure your hand is right up against it, cause it’ll help prevent the knife from moving in your hand.  Especially if you have a weak grip.”

 _Like you do._ He hadn’t said it out loud but she heard it anyway, and it didn’t matter really, because in truth she wasn’t even trying.  It was just something to do, honestly, and how hard could holding a knife be?  He always acted as if it took some practiced hand, but it seemed to her that she only needed to close a fist around it and she’d be ready to strike.

“Now, if you want to sneak up on someone, you’d hold the knife the other way, but you still want your hand up by the quillon.”

Gently, as if afraid to frighten her, he put his hand over hers and carefully moved the dagger so that the blade was towards her, putting every finger into its proper place _.  Dark and light_ , she mused to herself.  _They look like they go together._

“See how you can hide it against your arm?  Even your tiny little bird arm can conceal a weapon and…” 

He stopped abruptly when she accidentally pressed the tip of the blade into her forearm, right through the sleeve and into her own flesh, and they watched in silence as blood bloomed bright over the fabric. 

He didn’t berate her for her carelessness, which was both surprising and not at all surprising, only helped her push her sleeve up to clean and dress the superficial wound.  She could repair the dress later, she knew; it was nothing, not really. 

“You can keep practicing, if you want,” he rasped, almost hesitant.  “Unless it hurts too much.”

It did hurt, a little, though not enough to matter.  But she’d had enough of the knife by then, so she laid it in her lap and stared at the trees again, lulled into a peaceful calm until they finally broke for camp.

He handled her silence as well as he could, she supposed; he did nothing to distract her from her thoughts or her grief and attempted no idle conversation, but at least he had no foul words for her either.  When she forgot to make the fire that night, he didn’t yell at her.  When she wouldn’t eat, he didn’t force her.  And later when she slipped inside his bedroll with him, he didn’t stop her.

He held one arm out for her to lay against him, more out of necessity than anything else, since there wasn’t truly room for her in his bedroll.  Her arms were folded demurely at her chest, providing a barrier even as she pressed closer to him, her head on his shoulder and his arm on the ground behind her, not really touching her.  It felt right, being nestled at his side like she was molded just for him, breathing in his scent and soaking up his warmth- he was comfort, and she so needed comfort right now.

For the longest time they just lay there, side by side, no words between them.  She wasn’t sure if he was sleeping or not, had learned by now that just because he was quiet and still it didn’t necessarily mean he was asleep.  It wouldn’t have mattered anyway- she needed to speak her thoughts aloud, and if she woke him while doing it then so be it. 

“I prayed for you,” she told him, her voice flat.  “The night Stannis attacked.  I prayed to the Mother to save you.  And Arya, and Robb and my mother.  And… and I can’t remember... I can’t remember if I prayed for Bran and Rickon.  I’m certain that I did, but… I can’t remember.”

And then she was sobbing, weeping uncontrollably, and he pulled her to him, firm but gentle and somehow familiar even though he’d never held her like this.  There were no pretty words, not from him, no platitudes about how it would get easier with time.  He just held her till the tears stopped falling and she finally drifted off to sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In case you were wondering, my 5k was awful, lol. But Savannah was fun. I didn't eat as much shrimp as I was hoping to, but we all make sacrifices...


	10. The Question

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I like this chapter a lot, honestly, but am worried that it's too talky or OOC, and I'm hoping it's clear what the takeaway message is.
> 
> Thanks as always for reading! And thanks SnowWhiteKnight for naming the chapter for me.

It got easier; every day was easier.  She was still sullen and withdrawn- like him, only not angry- but slowly she seemed to be growing back into herself.  Occasionally she’d hum, sometimes she talked, most of the time she didn’t.  She smiled a few times- usually when she was thanking him for something that he’d told her a hundred times already she didn’t have to thank him for- and it warmed him to know the girl was still in there somewhere, under the grief.  She would practice with her knife, incorrectly, but he almost never told her as much.  He would one day, but for now he let her keep her silence.

The only thing that wasn’t easier was this new anxiousness he’d been feeling, this unpleasant buzzing that sat in his gut and pestered him whenever things became quiet too long.  So unused to this particular nervousness it took him forever to identify it as fear; not the crippling fear he associated with fire, but fear nonetheless.  Why he would be so fearful when things had been so good lately he couldn’t quite explain. 

“Ready?”

“Yes, my lord,” she said dimly, and he lifted her onto Stranger before swinging up behind her.  She still called him that, sometimes- he figured it was just a habit that was hard to break, and also figured it wasn’t really worth fighting over, not lately.  He didn’t _hate_ it, not like he used to; at least she didn’t call him ‘ser.’ 

They fell into their usual solitude as he led Stranger onto the road, the rhythmic sound of the horse’s hooves the only noise between the three of them.  She used to hate the silence, used to fill it with useless chirping, but now seemed to revel in it.  He didn’t fault her for it, of course- just because he never had a brother he would mourn didn’t mean he wasn’t moved by her grief- he sat behind her during the day, lay next to her at night, wishing there was something he could do to ease her burden.  The only thing he could think of was to just stop acting like a complete ass. 

But now she was watching him, reading him for a few minutes, and he knew something was coming.  It was the look she always gave him right before she asked a question, like she was debating whether or not to bother him about favorite foods or if he’d ever built a snowman.  Usually he’d snap and sigh at her, tried to let her know he was doing her a favor by responding to her inquiries, though the truth of it was that he never really minded.  So now that she was looking up at him with some question on her tongue he resolved not to react with any of his usual irritability.  Whatever she asked, any question at all, he would gladly answer. 

“How many women have you been with?”

Fuck, except _that_.  Why would she... A few days ago he would have assumed she was trying to annoy him but now her expression was so blank and guileless that he knew she was just curious.  And since she'd had so little regard for her words lately- like she was too numb to bother- he supposed this question was just more of the same _._   And he always answered her other questions.  So he answered this one in the only way he knew how- by _not_ answering. 

“Why do you ask?”

“Why not?” she shrugged, blinking up at him as if she had asked him when his nameday was or some other trivial matter of no importance; he still wasn't going to answer, so she guessed.  “Dozens?”

“Sure,” he clipped unhappily, clearing his throat and shifting in his seat.

“Hundreds?” 

“Probably,” he conceded after a moment’s calculation.

She paused for a second before venturing another guess.  “ _Thousands_?” 

When he hazarded a glance down at her he noticed her mouth turned up at the corners and her eyes sparkling like they hadn’t done in days.  Gods, he’d missed her playfulness.  He couldn’t say he was particularly thrilled with her current topic of teasing but as long as she was feeling better then he would play along. 

“Maybe,” he said slyly, drawling the word and averting his eyes; she huffed at him- in amusement or disappointment he didn’t know which- but at least she wasn't pressing for details.  Though now she had started that thread of conversation he wouldn't mind... turning it around on her. 

“How about _you?”_ he asked, fixing her with a pointed look.

A hand sprung to her chest, eyes wide in mock indignation.  “Why, I haven’t been with _any_ women.” 

Her answer surprised him and he let out a bark of laughter, then glanced down at her, surprised to see a wide smile and pink tinting her cheeks and ears.  Her playfulness was muted but her blush was vivid; he wasn’t sure if he ever did that before, made a girl blush like that.  He knew he scared her, he knew sometimes he embarrassed her, but the pink on her cheeks was not from fear or shame but something else entirely, something he’d never bothered to learn or understand.

“No, really,” he pressed, wanting to keep that blush in her cheeks.

“I’m a _maiden_ ,” she insisted.  He’d known that, of course, but liked seeing her nervous, and pressed his lips tight together to hide his smile.

“Kissing?” he asked after a few seconds.

She was hanging her head, picking at the stitches on her sleeve.

“Just the once,” she said slowly.  “And you were there, so you already know.”

He huffed in surprise at her answer and let his eyes trace the curve of her jaw, remembering that day in the godswood when she’d let him put his lips to hers.  “First kiss,” he murmured.  “I’m honored.”

“You _should_ be,” she replied, but she was so quiet that he couldn’t tell if she was pouting or teasing.  

“Mine, too.”

The girl whipped her head around so fast he thought it might twist right off her neck, then gawked at him as if she couldn’t believe what she was hearing.  “Truly?”

“That surprises you?”

“Well… yes,” she answered after a moment, her mouth curving into a little smirk.  “You _are_ incredibly old.”

“Very funny,” he grumbled, though she wasn’t wrong.  He _was_ incredibly old, and being around her youthful naiveté all the time was a constant reminder of that fact.

“I’m honored,” she said softly, like he had said to her.

“You _should_ be,” he rasped, trying not to smile because he knew the way his scars stretched was something like a nightmare.  Then she had that curious look again, and he braced himself for whatever she asked but hoped it was about spices.

“What does that thing with the cup mean?”

That thing with the cup… oh, fuck. 

“Wouldn’t you rather talk about wars or weaponry?” he growled irritably.

“Maybe after you tell me what the cup thing means.”

“What makes you think it means anything at all?”                                                                                  

Her sudden laughter surprised him, not just because of her reaction but because it had been so long since he’d heard her laugh.  She didn’t giggle like a little girl anymore.  _When did she stop doing that_? 

“You’re avoiding the question,” she accused him, still laughing.  “You reacted almost exactly how Ser Arys reacted, so it must mean _something.”_

“Uh-huh, and I am _never_ explaining it to you.”

“Oh, come now, it can't be that bad.”

“No, not happening,” he insisted.  “You’ll learn someday, but not today and not from me.”

She frowned at him in what he was certain was an exaggerated manner and turned away, clearly disappointed and intent on showing it.  She was wringing her tiny hands, and for a moment he thought the light mood was ruined, but she suddenly swung her head around and gave him a look of wide-eyed scandal.

“ _Thousands_?” she asked again, one brow raised in mock disapproval.

He chuckled.  “No, not really.”

He was afraid she would keep asking but thankfully she didn’t, because the truth was he couldn’t really recall how many women he’d been with, and didn’t want to even think about it.  She glanced up and smiled shyly without meeting his eyes till that same curious expression fell over her face, the one that let him know she was going to ask another question.  All he could do was hope it wasn’t as horrible as the last two questions.

“Can I hold the reins for a while?”

The breath he was holding escaped all at once, and when he looked down at her he was surprised to see her smirking.  “I don’t think Stranger would like that,” he replied blandly.

“What are you talking about?  Stranger _loves_ me.  Right, Stranger?”  As if on cue, Stranger turned his head and snapped in their direction, and she waved her hand at him triumphantly.  “See?”

So he handed her the reins and let her take over, while he resisted the urge to wrap his arms around her and bury his face in her hair.  And there was the problem- as long as he was holding the reins he had something to do with his hands; now he had no idea what to do with them. 

 _I never have any idea what to do with my hands._  

The only thing he knew for certain was that she sought him out, every night, though he couldn’t say why.  She would set up the camp as she always did, placed the bedrolls out side by side, and he would think that she had finally come to her senses and would sleep on her own.  But then he’d put the fire out and she would ignore her bed in favor of his, sliding in next to him as if she belonged there.  He’d tell himself he shouldn’t allow it but he always did, and he’d tell himself not to get used to it, but he already had.  And then he’d feel the fear buzzing in his veins again, and he’d wonder what was eating at him but he could never quite name it. 

He let her do as she pleased but was sure to never take more than that.  He never wrapped his arms around her, though he wanted to; never turned to face her, though he wanted that, too.  He lay on his back, often uncomfortable, while she snuggled up to his side with her arms folded across her chest.  And it was nice, a little, but every morning he’d wake up to her beside him, her warmth and her scent and her little hand in his and he’d be _afraid_.  Every single buggering morning, and he could not figure why.

Even stranger was that it seemed he only felt this way during times like these, when everything seemed to be going as well as could be expected.  When she fought with him he was fine; when he was worried about being caught he was fine.  He didn’t particularly like the fighting and the worrying, but at least he understood them.  But right now, when it was just the two of them sharing an easy silence, the fear would creep up on him and he’d find himself swallowing back bile.  He told himself that it was because he wasn’t used to the peace and calm, that typically he had to be on edge as a matter of survival, and whenever any unwanted emotions overtook him he could correct the situation with a quick spar.  But another part of him knew that it had little to do with what he was accustomed to, and more to do with what he was _growing_ accustomed to.

Especially at night, when she was nestled up against him, her long body beside his like… well, like they went together. 

“It’s cold tonight,” she said later that night after they’d eaten their meals and were preparing for bed.  He hadn’t responded, unsure of what she meant or if she meant anything at all.  He had been certain that once she started feeling better that she would sleep on her own, and she had been an awful lot like herself today, what with the questions and the teasing and the smiles and the blushing.  But once again she was sliding in next to him, awkward but graceful in her own way, and he held his arm out for her like he always did so there would be room for her.

“Thank you.”  It was the same breathless almost-apology she whispered every night, and he responded in the same way he always did:  with silence. 

Because the truth was she didn’t need to ask and she didn’t need to thank him- he’d hold her like this every night and longer, if she’d let him, and that scared him most of all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh, and if anyone is curious about the G-rating... no, it won't be staying G, just a few more chapters, ok?


	11. The Conversation

Sansa lay staring off into complete darkness, unable to sleep, and not because her weary body didn’t _want_ sleep, but because her mind was simply unable to stop churning.  That had been happening a lot lately, where she’d spend every moment wondering where they were going and what would happen and how her family would welcome her. 

Not tonight, though; tonight her thoughts were firmly on the muscular form beside her.

She couldn’t say how many nights she’d lain snuggled up next to him- a sennight?  more?- and not only had he never complained but he’d never _tried_ anything, either.  And she was glad that he'd not taken her desire for comfort as an invitation for intimacy... at first.  Now, though... now she wondered why he never put his arm around her, never let his hand caress her hair and back, never kissed her.  He wouldn't even touch her unless he had to, which seemed strange.  It was his right, she knew that, and her duty, but the hand behind her stayed firmly on the ground. 

It wasn’t that she _wanted_ to... 'be bedded' by him, only that she’d assumed she’d have to fight him about it.  She had thought she’d have to ask him every night to wait, try to appease him with chaste kisses and embraces; instead she was the one lying there thinking that she wouldn't mind a little affection, and the more she thought about it the more she didn’t understand it.

Wasn’t he supposed to _want_ her?  Or even if he didn’t want _her_ , wasn’t he supposed to want _something?_   Hadn’t she been told to never be in such a compromising position with a man because he would definitely take advantage of the situation?  She _had_ been told that, repeatedly, yet the man in question was proving the advice entirely false.    

It was _confusing_ … and if she was being completely honest, having him so close to her with nothing happening was confusing her body as much as it was confusing her mind.  It seemed that she was having more and more difficulty relaxing around him; she _should_ be completely comfortable, but instead she’d feel restless, almost uneasy, and sleep would elude her.  She’d wonder every night if _this_ would be the night he finally claimed her, but he never did, and the relief she felt initially was starting to feel more like defeat.     

In the pitch-black darkness right next to her she could hear him, and she knew he was fast asleep just by the way he was breathing.  Well, maybe breathing wasn’t the right word.  He chuffed more than he breathed, twitching ever so slightly and occasionally snarling softly as if chasing a rabbit in his sleep.  The first time he snuffled, she bit back a giggle.  The second time came too quickly, though, and she couldn’t stop the laugh that escaped.

“What’s so funny you have to wake me in the dark of night?” he grumbled, startling her.

“You… sleep like a giant puppy,” she stammered out before quiet giggles overtook her.  “Apologies, I didn’t mean to wake you.”

“Didn’t mean to wake _you,_ ” he murmured sleepily.  “I’ll try to make the puppy behave.”

“It doesn’t bother me.  It’s not as if you snore.”

“ _You_ snore.”

“I do _not!”_ she gasped, scandalized.

“That first night, I thought we were being attacked by a bear.”

She bit her lip hard to hold back her giggles, not wanting to disturb the peaceful quiet of the night, though she couldn’t hide how her body was shaking.  She didn’t know why she always denied it when she knew it was true- Arya, her mother, even Septa Mordane had told her she snored. 

“You’re lying,” she protested, though she knew he wasn’t.

“I’m not,” he mumbled.  “A hound will die for you…”

“But never lie to you.  You repeat yourself, my lord.  Do you know what that means?”

“What?”

“That I know everything about you.”

He didn’t respond, not at first, and for a few heartbeats she thought maybe he’d gone back to sleep.  “I suppose I know everything about you, too,” he finally replied.

“How _could_ you, you never ask me anything,” she scoffed. 

“I know you like to play games.  Let’s play the game where we sleep when it’s dark and talk when it’s light.”

She laughed softly at his jape but wouldn’t give up.  “You said we were sleeping late tomorrow.”

“I’m _tired_ , Sansa.”

She believed him.  And as she stared blindly into the night she knew she should let him sleep, especially since he’d specifically said that’s what he wanted.  But at the same time… there was something about lying next to him and whispering to each other like lovers that made her heart skip extra fast.  Maybe it was the sleepy, rumbly sound of his voice.  Maybe it was because this whole experience was new to her.  Or maybe it was because she felt so differently around him when the sun went down, like whatever was between them became something else entirely. 

“Sandor?” she started; he didn’t answer but she knew he was awake.   “How come Joffrey never ordered you to hit me?”

“I don’t know.”

“Would you have?”

“I would’ve had to.” 

She knew that was true- he _would_ have had to; who knew what kind of punishment Joffrey would mete out if he’d refused?  That didn’t make his answer any easier to accept, though, especially since he’d responded so quickly, as if he didn’t even need to think about it.

“Sandor?”  A solitary grunt was his only response.  “The day Myrcella left for Dorne… and the people started rioting… why did you come for me?”

“ _Someone_ had to,” he grumbled after a heartbeat, as if it was obvious.

“No, they didn’t,” she countered, remembering how not only had she been abandoned to her fate by the person meant to protect her, but clearly no one had been ordered to retrieve her, either.  The last she saw him he’d been sent into the crowd to find the source of unrest, so he must have been acting on his own when he came to her rescue.

“If something happened to you then it would have meant certain death for the Kingslayer.”

“So… you saved me… to save Jaime Lannister?”

“Yes.”

She didn’t believe him, not one little bit, but was unwilling to push the issue any more. 

“Why did you bring me with you?”

There was a long pause, long enough to make her think that he’d either gone back to sleep or was never going to answer, but then he did.  “You were unhappy.  Do you regret coming?”

Oh… damn him, he’d rushed forward with his question before she could even think about his answer.  “No,” she insisted quickly.  “Do you regret bringing me?”

“No,” he answered just as quickly.  “Did you really think I was going to kill you?”

For just a moment she thought about lying, but then thought better of it. “Yes.”  Nothing else, just the truth, because he’d asked for it.  “At Joffrey’s nameday tournament… when you said what a man sows on his nameday he reaps throughout the year.  Did you make that up?”

“Might be true somewhere,” he said immediately, not exactly the ‘yes’ she was expecting but close enough.  “That night I found you on the serpentine… who were you meeting in the godswood?”

How could he… oh, but of course he knew, the man wasn’t a complete fool.  But if he’d known the whole time then why hadn’t he told Joffrey or Cersei or Tyrion or  _anyone?_   Had he been protecting her in more ways than she’d ever known? 

“Ser Dontos.”  She could feel him tense beside her, that subtle flinch that let her know how displeased he was with her answer.  “Don’t do that.  Someone left me a note to meet in the godswood, I didn’t know who it was till I got there.”

“Oh, that’s _much_ better,” he rasped sarcastically, the arm behind her rising and falling in obvious frustration.  “Seven hells, Sansa, it could have been _anyone_.  Anything could have happened to you, and you just hopped on down to the godswood because you got a _note?”_

She knew it had been foolish, but she was desperate.  Obviously desperate, if she’d run off with the _Hound_ of all people, but she didn’t really need to say that right now, did she?  So she didn’t answer, didn’t say anything at all, until it was silent so long she was worried he’d fallen asleep.

“Sandor?”

“I’m fucking tired, Sansa,” he grumbled, meaning to put an end to the discussion; but after several heartbeats he spoke again, calmer this time.  “What?”

“Are we married?”

“No.”  His answer was firm, immediate… and disappointing.

“Why not?”

“You’re a princess.  I’m a dog.  _That’s_ why not.”

“I don’t think it works that way,” she countered after she’d pondered his argument a moment.  “You said the words.  I said them too.  So… how is it we’re not married?”

“We’re just _not,”_ he growled, clearly annoyed but she was annoyed, too.

“I think you’re wrong.  It was as proper a wedding as any I’ve ever seen.  We said everything we were supposed to, did all the things we were supposed to...”  She paused then, her mind whirling, her body tense as she realized what she’d said.  “Well… _almost_ all the things we were supposed to.”

His heart might have been going a little faster, or mayhap she was imagining it, but somehow she was certain that he knew exactly what she was referring to.  It wasn’t her intention to talk about… _that_ … but now she’d started down the path, she inexplicably felt the need to keep going.

“I just thought you would have… by now.”

“Is that what you want,” he hissed angrily.  “To get fucked by a dog, on the ground, in the woods?”

“Why must you be so crude?”

“That’s not an answer.”

She didn’t want to answer him, because the answer was no.  She didn’t want to… ‘fulfill her husband’s needs’ deep in the woods and lying on the ground; it may be her duty to lay back and endure, but given the choice she thought she’d rather wait.  And besides… lying with him meant she would really and truly be married to him, and she wasn’t entirely certain how she felt about that.  It was one thing to think it, to say it, to believe it.  But right now the space between ‘wedded’ and ‘unwedded’ was still a big wide muddy grey.  Once she was bedded there would be no question whatsoever if they were wedded, and she didn’t feel ready to even _think_ about taking that last step. 

“I suppose not,” she finally admitted, feeling oddly proud that she’d had the courage to say so, but also like she’d somehow lost the battle **.** “Is that… all you want of me?”

There were several moments of awkward silence before he finally groaned “go to sleep, girl.”

“I’m not a girl,” she protested lamely.  It seemed he only ever called her that when he was trying to push her away, and she’d had enough of his distance.  “It’s just… you never even touch me.”

“I _told you_ no more games.”  

A game… of course he would think it was a game.  Wasn’t that what she had taught him to expect of her? 

“It’s not a game.  I… I wouldn’t mind…”

Wouldn’t mind what, exactly?  A kiss?  An embrace?  They weren’t the kinds of things a lady requested, even of her husband, and she doubted very much they were the kinds of things that would satisfy a man such as him.  An _experienced_ man such as him.  And maybe he knew that, because he still had not moved, hadn’t spoken, hadn’t even tried to...

“Show me.” 

“What… do you mean?”

“You know what I mean.  You say you wouldn’t mind- show me.”

His breathing was still near-silent, and when he spoke it was so calm and steady one might think he was entirely indifferent to the conversation they were having.  But the man was tight as a drum, and his heart was pounding so desperately she could feel it in her head, feel his racing pulse and the thoughts it conveyed; it was the closest she could get to reading his mind, to hearing his secrets, and right now she was grateful for the insight.  Because she knew that he wanted her but would never believe that she wanted him, would always think she was playing with him.  And if she didn’t show him _right now_ that it wasn’t a game to her then he would never trust her, not ever again. 

“If I say stop?” she whispered.

“Then I’ll stop.”

Slowly, so slowly, she pushed up off the ground and moved to reach over him, her chest pressed awkwardly against his though her hips stayed against the forest floor.  Her heart was galloping at that point, and it was suddenly near-impossible to breathe, and was it her imagination or had it also become unbearably hot? 

“And if I _don’t_ say stop?”

“Then I’m not fucking stopping,” he threatened, his face turned towards hers like a babe seeking heat.  “But I would never hurt you, little bird.  You know that.”

There were reasons, she knew, why she _shouldn’t;_ but at that moment she could not remember what any of those reasons were.  All she could think about was him- the things he’d said to her, the things he’d done for her, the vows he made to her... the power in the arms he’d wrapped hesitantly around her, the warmth of his body against hers, the tickle of his breath on her neck.  So even though she couldn’t see him, and even though she really should know better, and even though her heart was beating so hard she thought it might jump out of her chest… she traced her nose up his jaw and cautiously kissed him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you are celebrating Thanksgiving this weekend I wish you a happy and safe holiday! I'm truly thankful for each and every one of you!


	12. The Intruder

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't know why I'm so nervous about this chapter, but I am. The idea of it is something I've always wanted to write, hopefully you'll understand why.

Her kisses were probably the sweetest thing anyone had ever given him in his entire miserable life, and more than he could ever hope for, more than he could handle.  So it was really no wonder that he managed to ruin it.

Kissing wasn’t something Sandor had much experience with- _any_ experience, really, since whores wouldn’t do anything so ‘intimate.’  Never saw the point, anyway, couldn’t understand why people would want to connect with their mouths when there was a much better way to connect.  Having to figure it out with _her_ , though, was… interesting.  To say it was obvious that they were both new to it would be a chivalrous assessment, but the more they ‘practiced’ the more he knew exactly what he wanted to do. 

He was a hurricane in those moments, so much power and energy, where she was the daintiest little reed caught up in his storm.  And he tried, he really did.  She said no fucking, so that’s what he kept telling himself.  He knew where _that_ line was, and knew not to cross it, but as for the rest of it… it was _confusing_ is what it was- being able to touch her just a little, but not in certain places and not in certain ways… how in seven hells was that supposed to work?  It wasn’t as if he was _thinking_ about it, it was just what his instincts told him to do, and then she would tell him ‘no’ and he’d wonder exactly which part she was objecting to.

He had meant it completely when he told her she only had to tell him to stop and he would, but holding himself back just because she _said_ so had proven to be much more frustrating than he thought it would be.  Hell, stopping wasn’t really something he was used to, especially once he got going; there was really no point in starting if he couldn’t see it through, if not with a whore then at least with his hand.  But neither was possible when she was wrapped around him, kissing him sweetly and gently keeping his hands from wandering.  And he would groan in protest, like the complete ass that he was.  _‘Sandor, no, you promised you’d stop,’_ she kept insisting every time she had to stay his hands, as if it was his fault they were in this position in the first place.  Except, bugger it, it _was_ his fault they were in this position in the first place.

Still, his misbehaving hands hadn’t been enough to make her stop entirely.  No, that came later.  At some point between kisses she’d put her hands on his face and breathlessly said she wished it was lighter so she could see him, and he’d called her a liar.

 _That_ did it.  She’d immediately dropped her hands and pulled away with a crisp _‘good night’_ before crawling out of his bedroll and retreating to her own, leaving him with a painful throb between his legs and nothing to do about it.  It took ages to get back to sleep after that.

Waking to somehow find her hand in his was like a cruel jape, seeming to emphasize that she wanted hand-holding and tender kisses while he wanted to rip her clothes off and fuck the pain away.  The disparity between their desires was so absurd that he fell back on the only emotion he ever fully understood:  anger.  He stomped around the campsite like a petulant child till she told him to stop pouting.

“I’m not pouting,” he’d snarled.  Except, bugger it, he _was_ pouting, he knew it and so did she.  So he put some distance between them by storming off into the woods and taking the problem in hand.  But _that_ problem was solved in mere seconds, and as his blood finally started to cool down he began to wonder exactly why she’d kissed him in the first place.  It didn’t make any sense now that he could think it through, but he supposed the girl was craving the sorts of things girls her age typically craved and simply had no other options but him.  He should be offended by the thought, probably, but in the end it didn’t really matter, because he wasn’t stupid enough to decline whatever she was willing to give.

He’d have to tell her he was sorry.  It was completely against his nature to apologize for anything, much less his desire, and the irrational part of him rebelled against the very idea.  But the rational part of him knew that’s what he was supposed to do, what she expected, what she _deserved,_ so he made his way back to camp, slowly, trying to decide on the right words.

He heard her before he saw her, her voice rising up clear in the stillness of the woods, and like a fool he wondered what she was trying to tell him that couldn’t wait till he returned.  He found out soon enough.  Stepping into the camp, he saw the man she was talking to, and reached instinctively for his sword, only then realizing- somehow during his immature tantrum this morning he’d forgotten to put on his swordbelt.  _Fuck_.

“Is this your husband?” the man asked, though his expression said that he knew full well who he really was.  Sandor had never seen this man before, but his golden hair, green eyes, and crimson doublet were a dead give-away.  Definitely a Lannister. 

The handsome prick never took his eyes off Sandor as he drew his sword. 

“So it’s true,” he laughed.  “Everyone said the Hound had stolen the king’s betrothed.  I never believed it; didn’t see you as the type.  Guess I was wrong.”  The smug sneer was the only thing marring the man’s otherwise perfect features.  “You don’t have to be afraid, my lady,” he said to Sansa.  “I’ll protect you.”

Gods, how could he be so stupid?  The one buggering time he doesn’t put his belt on, and this is what happens.  He could see his sword lying uselessly by his abandoned bedroll, too far away to reach, and all he could do was clench and release his hands repeatedly in frustration.

“Come stand behind me, my lady,” the man said.  “I’ll take care of the dog.  He won’t hurt you anymore.”

_Don’t do it.  Sansa, don’t go._

But she never even glanced in his direction before she went to stand behind the comely asshole.  Was she so upset with him that she would actually leave?  _Now?_   She wasn't even trying to argue for his life, not a peep out of the bird to please please please spare him. But of course she wasn't- why would she fight for him when she could replace her angry, ugly escort with a better one? Fucking Lannisters!  He _hated_ this man, hated him for besting him, hated him for being handsome and rich and everything the girl ever wanted.  He could not _believe_ that it was going to end this way, struck down by an unknown assailant as he stood unarmed in a clearing, while the girl he desired was carted away, glad to be rid of him.  He felt… betrayed.  And angry, of course, but that wasn’t new.  If only his anger could somehow strike the prick down.

He couldn’t see her anymore; she was completely hidden by the man, who was smirking at Sandor’s obvious displeasure.  “Looks like your fun is over,” he said, flashing a brilliant smile.  “And mine has just begunnngghh….”

The smile froze oddly, and his eyes turned to glass before crumbling into a heap, leaving Sansa standing behind him, looking down with an unreadable expression.  And for several long moments, neither one of them moved; but finally she looked at the bloody dagger and dropped it quickly before wiping her hand on her clothes.  Only after she saw the smear of crimson on her skirt did she start shaking, and the cry that escaped her lips was so mournful Sandor would have thought her injured.  He closed the distance between them in only a few steps, wrapping her tightly in his arms and pulling her away from the now-dead Lannister.   

“I want to leave,” she said through sobs.  So he put her on Stranger and led her through the trees before returning alone to the camp.  He donned his sword belt and quickly packed up before turning his attention to the dead man and the dagger still lying next to him; Sandor picked it up and cleaned it before sliding it into his belt.  The man had very little on him that was useful, but that wasn’t really what he was looking for- he wanted to see the wound.  Brushing his hair back, he could see the deep gash the bird had given him in the back of his neck, a good clean cut that killed almost instantly.  _Good girl._   His curiosity satisfied, he hurried back to where he left Stranger.

“Do you think he was married?” she asked as soon as she saw him.  “Do you think he had children?” 

He’d forgotten how jarring it could be to kill, especially for the first time, and now the bird was learning that lesson the hard way.  He couldn’t help but feel a twinge of sympathy for her.  It was easy to assume that only bad men ever got killed, but plenty of good men perished, too, men who might otherwise be no threat whatsoever.  He had no words for her, though, so he stayed silent, only loaded their belongings onto Stranger as quickly as he could.

She was still trembling, shaking even more than before, and her eyes were wild and wouldn’t meet his.  “Do you think he’ll be missed?  Will someone miss him?”  That was a good question, actually, and not one Sandor wanted to find out.  They had to get going before the dead man was discovered.

Swinging up behind her, she dug her hands into his tunic and he wrapped his arms around her again as he urged Stranger into a canter.  “I didn’t want to.  I didn’t want to, I didn’t want to…”

He wanted to tell her that she only did what she had to.  He wanted to tell her that she had done a better job than most.  Seven hells, he wanted to tell her he was _proud_ of her.  But he knew that’s not what she needed to hear, so instead he said “I know” and held her until she stopped crying.

He was supposed to be better than this.  He was a trained killer, for gods’ sake, and she was the innocent maid.  Yet _she_ had been the one to arm herself while he’d wandered off without any weapons.  _She_ was the one who took care of the situation while he stood there like a half-wit.  He’d promised to protect her, but she was the one who’d protected him.  The _one time_ she actually needed him, and he failed her. 

 _Never again_. He pulled her closer and charged ahead.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Are you all terribly disappointed? Good times ahead, I promise, lol.


	13. The Aftershock

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A wee baby chapter, not much happening.

His heartbeat was deep and loud as a drum.  No, not like a drum- more of a _thud_ than a _boom,_ but steady and strong, like the man who owned it.  She’d heard his heart beating sometimes when the night was especially quiet, only now she realized she couldn’t remember _ever_ listening to someone’s heart like that, not even her mother or father.  It was somehow fitting that it was _his_ heart she listened to first.

It was that steady beat that eased her cries, calmed her shaking.  She focused on the noise and nothing else, because she _couldn’t_ think about anything else, and didn’t want to besides.  So she thought about him, his heart, his hard chest, his arm around her, his warmth.  And his words.     

She’d never truly thought about his words before, the ones he’d told her when the night sky glowed green.  She’d heard them, of course, and accepted them, but never took the time to think about them because they were always overshadowed by the things he’d done.  And now she was taking all those words apart, turning them over in her mind and examining them from every angle.

_‘I could keep you safe.  No one would hurt you again, or I’d kill them.’_

He’d been little more than a monster to her that night, and the prior one- full of hate and venom and determined to show it.  And then panic.  She knew now that he was afraid, truly afraid, and yet he’d come to her room to save her when it would have been easier to immediately flee.    

He’d frightened her- intentionally- and then made his promise.  And then he’d pushed her to her bed, held a knife to her throat, forced a song… it should have made her glad when he left; instead she’d called him back.  Because… those _words._   At the time she trusted in those words only because she _wanted_ to trust in them, wanted to believe them.  But she didn’t truly believe them… until now; she believed in those words now, because she knew they came from his heart, just as much as the steady _thud_ did.

“I left the knife.  I dropped it and… I left it.”

“I have it,” he replied softly, his voice rumbling through her chest.  “Do you want it back?”

 _Did_ she want it back?  No.  Yes.  Was she _supposed_ to want it back?  He’d told her to keep it on her, that she would need it, that her problems couldn’t always be solved with words.  And he’d been right.  He was always right.  “I suppose… yes.”

She pulled away and waited for him to retrieve the dagger from his belt, then lifted her skirt indecently high to sheath it back in the holder strapped to her calf.  It was far more skin than she was used to showing- to a man, at least- and glanced quickly to see if he was watching.  He was.  But whatever she thought she might see in his eyes, the only thing she saw was curiosity.  And also, he looked _surprised_.  Dropping her skirts again, she clasped her hands and dropped them in her lap.

“You had it on you.”  Not a question, no, not really anything, it sounded like he was talking to himself.  She glanced up at him quickly, but he kept his eyes forward, looking over Stranger’s head.

“You told me to.”  Was that wrong?  Surely he wasn’t going to tell her it was wrong, after he’d told her to do it, after she’d just learned why.      

“I just… didn’t know,” he muttered.  “When did you make that?” 

She almost laughed at him.  If he had been paying any attention at all he would have noticed her making the holder, because she worked on it right next to him each night while he worked on his sword.  She’d never hidden it, but it must have blended in with her other tasks.  She’d mended and embroidered, altered and patched, but also made this special holder for the dagger he’d given her because he told her she needed one.  And he had never noticed.

“I don’t know… a few nights ago?  You said I had to have it on me.”

“I know, I just… didn’t know you listened.”

A protest was working its way out of her mouth but she stopped it- she _didn’t_ always listen to him, no, she actually very rarely listened to him lately, usually argued with him just for the sake of arguing.  She looked up at him again, this time taking the moment to read him.  He looked… sad.   Why he would look sad, though, she couldn’t say.

It had been such a long day already, so much had happened.  Not even half a day had passed since she found herself awake and bored enough to pester him with questions.  She hadn’t expected his aggressive counter-attack, but once it was started she had no desire to stop.  And the things she learned, the things she said, the things _he_ said.  All those words that she could only now consider. 

 _‘You were unhappy_.’  What did that mean?  He risked his life to come get her because he knew she was unhappy?  That was it?  Why?  And then she’d more or less told him that she liked kissing him, that she wanted to do it again, that she wanted more.  And then she’d kissed him.  

_‘I would never hurt you, little bird.’_   He hadn’t hurt her, not physically, but her heart took a beating.  He had been… frustrated, and annoyed, and it was not at all what she wanted, not what she was aiming for.  She just wanted him to know that she liked being with him. 

 _‘Liar.’_          

His words weren’t the only thing she was now considering; she also couldn’t stop thinking about that kiss, everything that had followed, and how she’d been swiftly overwhelmed.  Looking back, she knew it was naïve to assume it would be lips brushing against each other, but she still hadn’t expected to feel so consumed by him, so completely possessed.  And they were only kisses!  They were hotter and hungrier than she had thought they would be, true, but they were still just kisses.  His hands had wandered more than she would have liked, but he always stopped when she told him to.  Or rather, when she _insisted_.  But he had not handled it well, and she had retreated from his bitterness to the safety of her own bedroll, sleeping alone for the first time in more nights than she could say.

Things were not better in the morning, and she started regretting that she’d ever woken him up, ever pressed him for conversation.  When he’d stormed off into the woods to be alone she’d silently bid him good riddance.  But soon after his departure, the man wandered into their camp.  And she’d tried, really tried, to get him to leave.  She’d told him she was with her husband, they were newly married and on their way home just as soon as they packed up.  She smiled and used all her courtesies, but the man would not leave.  When Sandor finally returned, things went very bad very quickly.    

The man knew who Sandor was, knew who _she_ was, and didn’t hesitate to take advantage of the situation.  And really, she couldn’t blame him.  He was doing what he had to do, which just happened to be in stark contrast to what _she_ had to do.  And she _had_ to do it.  Didn't she?

“Little bird?”  She looked up at him but he was still staring straight ahead.  He looked like he wanted to say something but was struggling with the words.  “I killed my first man…”

“When you were twelve.  I know.”  _I know everything about you_.  “And I suppose you handled it better than I did.”

He took a deep breath, brows furrowing as if considering his answer before continuing.  “Mine was different:  he raised his sword at me, I raised mine at him, and I won.  I didn’t have time to think about it, because as soon as that man fell another took his place.  When it was all over I was just grateful to still be alive, and didn’t think at all about the men who weren’t.”

He looked down at her, but not at her eyes.  “You did well, little bird.  Very well.”

“I didn’t want to.”

“I know.  But you had to.  He would have killed me.  Who knows what he would have done to you.  If he didn’t take you to Cersei he would have kept you for himself.  You only did what you had to.”

She knew that, she supposed, but was still grateful to hear him say it, grateful that this time the truth he told her wasn’t something terrible.  And she was glad that for once, she was able to do something for him after he’d done so much for her. 

“I saved your life?” she asked with a shy smile and he nodded.  “I think I like the sound of that.”  His expression softened under her words, but he still would not look her in the eyes.    

She dropped her own eyes to his tunic and imagined she could hear his heart again.  Wordlessly, he opened his arms and let her lay against him, her arms folded demurely across her chest, and she was glad he knew what she wanted before she had to ask for it.  _‘I suppose I know everything about you, too.’_   

“You never should have been in that position,” he rasped, his hand rubbing her back lightly.  “I shouldn’t have been so careless.  I’m supposed to be protecting you, not the other way around.”

His heart was beating faster, and his breath was coming harder.  “I’m sorry you had to do that, little bird.  I… I’m sorry for all of it.  For everything.”  He wrapped both his arms around her and pulled her tight while his heart beat wildly in her ear.  “Everything.”

She wanted to tell him that she didn't need his apology, that she understood, but it was such a romantic thing to say and she didn’t want to ruin it.  So instead she smiled against his chest and leaned in to his embrace, towards the heart she'd only recently started listening to.       

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *tilts head*  
> *squints eyes*
> 
> The Hound is a bit of a fluffy bunny this chapter. It's a moment of weakness, won't last.


	14. The Dirty Dog

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Look, we graduated to an 'M' rating!

They were sitting on the ground, cross-legged, even though she said ladies don’t sit cross-legged but she would make the exception just this once. And she was showing him some sort of clapping game, some gibberish about dragons and maidens in distress. 

“Does all your learning involve knights and princesses?” he teased her.

“Might be it does,” she smiled slyly. “Again.”

It was only fair, she insisted, that since she was such a good student with the dagger that he be a good student with the clapping game. So he tried, a little, because it was such an easy thing to make her happy. 

_…left…right…back…front…elbow….oops, other elbow….fuck…._

She just laughed at him. “Honestly, a man as gifted with a sword as you, I expected you to be much better with your hands.”

“I’m actually _very_ good with my hands,” he rasped with a smirk.  And judging by the way she lowered her eyes and blushed, she knew exactly what he meant. _Good_.

“Again,” she said.

After a while, she declared that it was good enough for now. “We’re going to practice this every night,” she threatened.  “I expect perfection by the time we get to Riverrun.”

She did that sometimes, tried to pretend she was the same proper lady she was when they first fled King’s Landing, but he knew the truth of it. Her courtesies had been steadily slipping off of her, the walls coming down stone by stone.  She was a different woman, now, and he couldn’t say he minded.

Still, he was surprised when she elected again to sleep beside him that night, slipping into the larger-than-average bedroll he was starting to think of as ‘theirs.’ It was much the same as usual, her snuggled up to him with her arms across her chest while his arm lay on the ground behind her.  But past that, it was very, _very_ different.  He couldn't say who started it, how or why or when; maybe it was neither of them, or both, but somehow they began kissing, and touching, and holding each other, and his hands wandered again, only now she never stopped him.  It was damn near innocent compared to what he was used to, but somehow he was able to hold himself back whether she asked it of him or not.

Even the first time he crept a hand up under her dress she didn’t stop him, didn’t grab at him or tell him to wait, didn’t even tense up, not how he would have imagined. There was excitement in her, he could tell- she would tremble under his hand but not like a frightened animal, more like a spring set suddenly in motion. He’d lift her skirt and she would allow it, run his hands up her thighs and over her firm bottom, and she would lean into him as if asking for more.  And then they’d get to a point where they either had to keep going or halt now and they would stop, an almost mutual decision every time.  It was still a new concept for him, this ‘stopping,’ but it got easier. 

Everything about her was so delicate and timid, he felt like a great big clumsy oaf. If he believed in gods at all he’d think any woman they made just for him would look exactly like her, with her long body and slender limbs and softness that perfectly contrasted to his hardness.  And in the dark, when he was in her arms, he could pretend he was whole, could almost really believe it. The fear that had seeped into his soul only a sennight past had become some other new and unnamable thing, and this time it wasn’t so unpleasant.

Their days continued, much the same as before. In many ways they treated each other no differently than they used to, still puttered about their tasks at camp, still talked freely on Stranger’s back, still insisted on propriety.  He still woke every morning with her hand in his, and went to sleep each night with her nestled against him, arms crossed against her chest while his hand lay on the ground behind her.  But then the sun would go down, and things would… change.

She resumed her old habit of wearing her sleep shift at night; he liked to believe that it had nothing to do with comfort and everything to do with him, but he wasn’t sure, and it didn’t truly matter. He accepted this gift, intended for him or not, easily lifting the hem and sliding his hand over her belly and all the way up.  She gasped into his mouth when he first cupped her breasts, so full and begging for attention, and more than anything he wanted to suck her nipples into his mouth, to press them between his teeth and feel them on his tongue.

It was getting harder and harder to hold himself back, to stay well within the parameters she had set. He’d unlace her sleepshift and kiss her anywhere his mouth could reach, but his hands… his hands went everywhere, and she always allowed it.  The first time he slid his hand between her legs he’d been surprised by the damp warmth he found seeping through her smallclothes- _so_ surprised that he’d immediately withdrawn.  But then his curiosity got the best of him and he snuck a hand down there again, and just like always, she allowed it.

She took a loud, shaky breath when he curled a finger around the fabric of her smallclothes, reaching carefully to the sensitive skin underneath. Seven hells, she’d been so wet, and as he explored her delicate little folds he could feel her trembling beneath him, but not out of fear- that was definitely _not_ fear.  But it was too much for her, and when he pulled away much sooner than he would have liked he could feel her relax beneath him, and when he kissed her again she returned it almost gratefully.  

She let him touch her whenever he liked after that, but he never lingered. But now he knew, _knew_ that her cunt was ready for him, and that was worse, in a way, but _so good_ , too, and he’d imagine what it would be like to feel all that wet warmth around him.

She’d sit in front of him every day as if nothing had ever happened between them, though his mind rarely wandered from the truth. He’d watch her work through all the knots in her hair and he’d remember how she got them.  He’d see the red-purple marks on her neck and he’d remember why he gave them.  He’d smell her on his fingers and he’d remember when that happened.  But instead of the burn he would have expected, his desire felt more like a simmer.  It was the knowing, he thought, that made it easier, knowing he could touch her again when the sun went down.  Because that’s how it always happened- they’d tend to their tasks, eat, then climb into their bedroll, and they’d both pretend they were ready for sleep, but then they’d be kissing again and sleep was forgotten.

He liked when she was on top of him, even in the confines of that buggering bedroll, though she never straddled his hips like he would have preferred. But in this way she had the control, and with it she still kissed him, still touched him, still let him slide his hands over her long body and longer legs.  And sometimes he’d just wrap both arms around her and hold her tight, content to kiss her and soak up all that sweetness. 

He liked being on top of her, too, when he’d part her legs and nestle between them and pretend it was everything he wanted. At first he tried to hide his arousal from her but the temptation was too strong, and he was soon pressing himself hard against her cunt, feeling her warmth on his cock and imagining… Ah, it was just so close, _too_ close, and he would have to distract himself in new and creative ways. 

He’d never really taken the time to understand women before, not really, but somehow with her it felt important. Night after night he’d read her, listen to the tiny sounds she made, and tried to learn, even in darkness, what it was she liked.  He’d run his thumbs over her nipples and bite her neck, listen to her breathless little gasps, so sweet and so so genuine. He’d slide a hand into her smallclothes and tease her, explored her body with the intentions of pleasing her, and she would stretch and arch under him as if she truly liked the way he touched her.  It was easier than he ever thought, once he started paying attention, to treat her how she deserved to be treated. 

She tried so hard to be quiet, which amused him. He’d give anything to hear her sing, to have her screaming his name, but he never said as much, certain that if he told her then the illusion would shatter.  He could really make her wriggle if she would let him, but she’d said no fucking, so even though he very much wanted to he instead followed her directive and prayed to whatever god that was listening that his balls didn’t turn blue and fall off.

And it was _killing_ him.  It was just so so close without being the thing he truly wanted.  And he _could_ … couldn’t he?  And she _wanted_ it… didn’t she?  Ah, but she’d _said_ no fucking and even in his addled state he knew what that meant, and knew that he really _shouldn’t._ But it would be so easy, replacing his fingers with his cock and sliding into her slick heat, so very easy to sate this hunger that was burning him up from the inside. 

'Please,' he all-but whimpered one night when the ache became too much, and before she could ask what he was pleading for he showed her, pulled her hand down towards the dull throb between his legs. The friction of her delicate hand against his rock-hard cock had been almost more than he could bear, even through layers of fabric, he damn near wept in relief. She didn't even truly seem bothered by it, only a little surprised, and quickly learned this extremely vital skill he was trying to teach her.  When he told her to squeeze him harder, she did; when he told her to move faster, she did.  Somehow her curious little fingers were more exciting than the grip of the most seasoned professional.  He came in his breeches all too soon, like a boy with his first whore, but he didn't care, _couldn't_ care- he’d been too long without a woman and the pleasure she wrung from him was almost painfully exquisite.  He refused to regret it, not now, not ever.

It wasn’t till later, after he’d cleaned himself up best he could and had crawled back into his bedroll, that he knew he was destined for hell. Not that there’d been any doubt before, but… she probably didn’t even understand what had just happened, didn’t understand any of the things he did to her, but he did them anyway without hesitation.  And he knew he’d do them again, too, if she allowed it.  And she _would_ allow it, though the gods only knew why.

She was snuggled up to him, arms across her chest and sleeping soundly, but he lie awake staring into the night. They were close to Riverrun, now; just over a week and she would be home.  He’d have to stop leaving marks on her.  If she showed up to Riverrun with marks on her body it would mean trouble for him- for them both, really, but mostly for him.  He’d have to be more careful about that, have to be more careful about all of it; he wondered if he was even _capable_ of being more careful when he’d failed her in every other respect.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not sure if this truly counts as smut. It's more like 'hints of smut' or maybe 'smut lite.' Dunno. What do you guys think?


	15. The Proper Lady

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to The_Immaculate_Bastard and SnowWhiteKnight for their creative guidance. Don't blame them, lol.
> 
> +++++++++++++++

 

_Husband._

The word tumbled around in her head constantly, whether in the dark of night or the light of day, tucked against him in their bedroll or perched atop Stranger. _My lord husband_.  It sounded… nice.  Suitable.  Not just the word, either, but the whole idea, the thought that she had someone of her own who looked out for her, cared for her, treated her well.  Her father had promised her a husband who was brave and gentle and strong, and while the Hound was certainly not who he was referring to she liked to think that he would approve.  He was not the same man he was back in King’s Landing; he had changed, and she couldn’t say she minded in the least.  

Though he was not yet her husband. Not in truth. 

When he had asked her if she wanted a bedding right there in the woods she had said no, and she had spoken honestly. Perhaps it was a bit childish of her to cling to the dreams of her youth, but so what if it was?  None of her _other_ fantasies had come true but there was still hope for her bedding, so insisting on waiting and doing it properly seemed fair.  He had been remarkably understanding about it- _surprisingly_ so- and she tried her very best to show him just how much she appreciated his patience.  

It was such a simple thing- a _little_ thing, really- to make him happy by allowing him to touch her.  It pleased her in more ways than she was willing to admit, and it seemed that the more things she allowed him to do the more things she _wanted_ him to do.  Not that she could say that, of course, not with _words,_ but she certainly said it in other ways- by hooking a leg over him when his hand went up her thigh, or pressing into him in the way she knew he liked.  She’d even started wearing her sleep shift again, and tying the laces loosely so that his great big clumsy fingers could easily undo them.

Every night she had shared more and more of herself with him, and it seemed every night she forgot more and more why she was so insistent she deny him. He’d touched her everywhere but it didn’t seem wrong; embarrassing, sometimes, but not quite shameful and never _wrong,_ not really.  She liked how her legs felt when they were tangled up in his, liked how she could feel him when he pressed against her; she knew what it was, and what it meant, but never shied away from it.  It was still a shock, though, to put her hand on him the previous night- even through layers of fabric she could tell it was very hot and very hard and very very large. 

She was laying out the bedrolls as usual when a dark and ugly hand appeared before her holding the daintiest little feather she’d ever seen, and she actually gasped in delight. She hadn’t even heard him approach yet there he was, seeming just as bored and unreadable as usual though his eyes looked vaguely pleased.

“Where did you find it?” she asked breathlessly, but he only shook his head.

“There’s a pool just through those trees, little bird. It’s cold but clean; you can wash if you want.”

She _did_ want- it had been too many days since she’d bathed properly and she _really_ needed a thorough cleaning.  So even though the thought of bathing in cold water sounded dreadful, she grabbed her paper-wrapped sliver of soap and sleep shift and headed in the direction he indicated.

He did the same after she returned, didn’t even protest when she shoved the soap into his hand and playfully pushed him towards the pool. He’d been so much more agreeable lately, quick and eager to please, and had only smirked at her before following her unspoken instructions.

They ate in silence as they always did, the night sky perfectly clear and the moon so full and bright it may as well have been a torch. There was hardly any need of the fire for light, though the warmth it provided was welcome.  She wouldn’t need it for long, though; soon she would have her other source of heat, a _better_ one, but one that could burn her just as easily.

When it was time to retire she moved towards the bedrolls, waiting till he put out the fire to remove her cloak. But this night he did _not_ put out the fire, and when he joined her where she stood she looked to him in confusion.

“My lord?”

There was no answer. Instead he took her into his arms and kissed her gently, lowered them together to rest atop their bedroll though they’d never done that before.  Side by side they lay, just as always, arms and legs tangled together and his face nuzzling her neck.

If she was being honest she would say she was happy for the freedom- things often got a little awkward when they were trapped in the confines of that bedroll. But there was also a certain degree of comfort in it, since in the dark she could close her eyes and pretend she was someone else, someone better, a woman who knew what he wanted and how to please him.  Outside of the bedroll, with the moon shining and the fire burning, there was no room for such pretense.  She wasn’t entirely certain how she felt about that, but then he was kissing her, and touching her, and she didn’t want to think about anything else anymore.

His hand slipped under her shift, up her leg and over her bottom, and when it did she could feel him tense in surprise.

“You always just push them aside,” she whispered, suddenly nervous.

It was true- her smallclothes did little to thwart his advances, if anything they simply made his attentions slightly uncomfortable. So tonight she had made the tactical decision to forgo them.  He must have approved, because that hand kept moving over the skin she didn’t usually leave exposed and his mouth hovered over hers, too distracted for kissing. 

“I want to look at you.”

“So look at me,” she laughed.

It wasn’t until his hands were undoing her laces that she understood what he meant, knew what he intended, and was no longer so confident. He must have noticed, because he paused long enough to meet her eyes.

“You can say no.”

“I know.” She _did_ know, didn’t she?  So she let him do as he pleased, this time less nervous, allowed him to sit her up and pull her shift over her head before lowering her again and kissing her softly on the mouth.  He didn’t linger, though, but pushed up off the ground so he could see more of her.

Her arms were folded in front of her, legs crossed awkwardly to shield herself from his view, but he still surveyed her as if he could see everything. He did nothing to force her arms away, said nothing to push her into something she truly didn’t want, and looking up at him then she knew that he never would.  She was still scared, a little, but not so scared that she couldn’t give him this. 

Taking a deep breath, she slowly unfolded her limbs, revealing herself completely to him, his gaze widened and intensified into something near thrilling as his eyes swept over her body. His breath hitched and caught for a moment, then began again, more labored than her own, though why that would be when she was the one completely undressed was a mystery.  He looked for so long and so hard that eventually it stopped being intimidating and started being… exciting. The way he looked at her was more than she could ever ask for, like she was the most beautiful, glorious, precious thing in existence and he was grateful just for the opportunity to lay eyes on her.  It felt good to be so appreciated in this way, oddly enough, so when he placed one hand across her belly it didn’t frighten her at all.

That hand didn’t stop at her belly, though, but continued to explore her, slowly over the curve of her hip, up along her ribs and down again. When he reached the swell of her breasts his hand rolled over, grazing just his knuckles over her hardened nipples and making her gasp in response.  His eyes flared at that, his mouth twitched; he was pleased with her reaction, so she gave him more.

He looked not only with his eyes but with his hands and his lips, leaning towards her to press gentle open-mouthed kisses into her skin. And he was so patient with her, moving slowly so she could get used to every new sensation but overlooking nothing.  Gods, but she thought his _knuckles_ felt nice!  It was nothing compared to the way his tongue felt when he ghosted over her nipples, nibbled at each in turn before continuing his path up her neck.

“I want to kiss you,” he growled below her ear, something in his voice sounding heated and near desperate, but she only sighed in relief. Kissing was familiar to her now, and the comfort of doing something she already understood was a welcome respite from this incredibly new experience.

“So kiss me,” she whispered, turning her mouth to him, but he did not meet her.

“No…” His hand drifted over her breast and ribs and stomach, down down down to cup her between her legs. “I want to kiss you _here._ ”

Sansa froze. He wanted… why would he… she couldn’t _allow_ that, could she?  Couldn’t even imagine why he’d _want_ that.  Oh, but it was only a kiss, right?  He’d kissed her many times, her cheek and her hair, her shoulders and neck and… more, and she’d always found it pleasurable.  If he wanted to kiss her other places then surely she could give him that.

“Say no,” he murmured, kissing her neck. “Say no, and I’ll stop.” 

She didn’t say no, and he didn’t stop. Instead he moved over her, covering her body with his own like he’d done many nights before but so different now.  Both hands went into his hair as he kissed his way downward, stopping at each breast to suck a nipple into his mouth and stroke it firmly with his tongue, coaxing little moans and whimpers from her though she tried her hardest to remain silent.  But it was almost comfortable, almost loving, the way he bathed her body in attention, lips ghosting over her ribs and stomach, nipping at her hip bones, kissing her thighs as he eased himself even lower.

Her breath hitched sharply when his lips brushed her, kissing her _there_ , and he paused a moment, waiting for her to say something.  She didn't, though, only willed her muscles to relax under his hands, and when he pushed one leg aside she did not fight him.

_It’s just a kiss. It’s only a kiss._

It was an odd thing to look down her own body and see his head between her legs, even odder when his eyes met hers, searching for an answer, a protest, _something_.  Instead she just stared at him, wide-eyed and unsure, and after a moment he lowered his head, opened his mouth, and kissed her again.

Ahhh… gods… he should have been more _specific!_ He should not be doing that, she should not be allowing it; she should say no, that he was being improper and presumptuous.  But it was just so _warm_ and not at all unpleasant, and as much as her mind wanted to protest, her body was more than content to let him do as he pleased. 

His hand was between her legs now, like it had been so many times before, and between the calloused fingers that parted her and the wet heat of his mouth it was almost more sensation than she could bear. Her body felt heavy, _so_ heavy, yet restless and desperate to move, and she couldn’t _not_ move, not with the way he was making her feel, and couldn’t stop the cries and gasps that escaped her.  Was… was that right? 

“Sandor?”

It was _maddening_ , his thumb working in tandem with his tongue on that little bump of flesh above her entrance while his fingers explored the folds beneath.  Oh, she would never be able to look him in the eyes ever again, not with his mouth right _there_ and her hips rolling up to meet him almost against her will.  She couldn't help it, though; the way he probed every sensitive inch of her was too overwhelming, and the more she needed from him the more he gave her.  When he snuck a hand up to grip her breast she clutched at his arm, desperate to be anchored to him, and he sucked gently on her skin just as a wave of pure bliss swept up and crested over her.

_“Sandor…”_

Blinding pleasure thundered through her body, radiating from the pulsing and throbbing down below where his mouth was, and as the roar in her ears became deafening silence the woods slipped away. She couldn’t have stopped it if she wanted to.  She was shattering, spinning, lost in him, every muscle tense and trembling, and if it weren’t for the arm he’d pressed across her belly to hold her down she probably would have completely rattled apart. 

By the time she’d regained her senses and her eyes fluttered open he had already unlaced and taken himself in hand, resting back on his heels, still between her legs. And it was a little intimidating but also somehow perfectly natural, watching him tug at his member, face twisted, breath heavy, and somewhere beneath her fear and nervousness there was something new.  Her body was loose and heady but needy for more- she wanted him _badly_ , needed to touch him, to kiss him, to hold him however he would let her, any way that would excite him much as he had excited her. 

It was instinct that made her rise and move towards him, to wrap one arm around his leg and rest her head against his hip while her hand slid over his. His eyes snapped down to hers, clearly stunned by her actions, but after only a moment he moved his hand out of the way and let her touch him.  

It was nothing like touching him through fabric, nothing at all! It was as hard as she remembered, but soft, too, and almost sticky and so so _hot_.  And she tried, some, to touch him in the way she thought he would like, but she just felt so clumsy and inexperienced and _stupid_ , trying to please him when she truly had no idea how. 

“I… I don’t know what to do,” she whispered, hoping he’d understand.

His eyes never left hers as he moved towards her, over her, easing her back down onto the bedroll and positioning himself between her legs like he’d done so many times before. Only now he was so very close and so very very exposed, her hand still on him as he hovered below her entrance.  Surely he didn’t mean to… she shook her head quickly, still not ready.

“No, not here.  I...”

“I know,” he gasped, an odd sound from a man like him.  “Just… ”  He buried his face at her neck, right above her collar bone, mouth open and wet and almost painful how he bit and sucked on her skin, stroking with his tongue like he’d done to her breast as his hips churned.

He was fast, she’d give him that. He’d even done most of the work, set his own pace, guided her hand with his own… all she had to do was hold him and he did the rest.  Gods, just the sounds he made, panting and groaning, almost crying… it was the strangest, most beautiful song she’d ever heard.  And when his release took him she knew what it was, knew that throbbing heat meant he’d spilled onto the bedroll beneath her, and she smiled at her own accomplishment, proud she’d been able to give him that.  It was an odd sort of satisfaction, almost as pleasurable as her _own_ release.  Almost.

When he was done- when she was done with him- she withdrew, suddenly self-conscious, and turned her head quickly while he rolled away. They didn’t speak at all; she couldn’t even _look_ at him, unsure of what to make of it all.  She turned her back to him as he re-laced his breeches, and she pulled on her sleep shift while he cleaned up.  And when she was dressed he kicked loam over the fire and crawled into his bedroll and she slid in next to him like she always did. 

Laying with him, arms folded across her chest and his arm flat on the ground behind her… she couldn’t sleep, too unsure of her own intentions when it came to this man. It was uncertainty that made her deny him, but what was there to be uncertain of anymore?  Hadn't he done everything he could for her, with no expectations of compensation?  He had, and what had she done for him in return?  Nothing.  She wouldn’t even give him the one thing she knew he was entitled to, because she wanted to wait for… what?  What was she waiting for anymore?  His body belonged to her just as hers belonged to him; no other woman would touch him again, no woman but her, yet still she denied him. 

_Husband._

He would make a good husband. She _knew_ it.  Mother would be furious but what could she do about it when it was already done?  Except that it _wasn’t_ already done.  If they showed up to Riverrun with an unconsummated marriage it would no doubt be set aside no matter what she said.  She’d been so caught up in trying to decide if she even _wanted_ to be married to him that she forgot the decision would not be hers in only a sennight.  If she wanted him in truth, she had to be _his_ in truth, and it had to be before they reached Riverrun.  And after all the things they’d done thus far, denying him because they were outside in the woods hardly seemed like a fair excuse anymore. 

_My lord husband._

Somewhere in Westeros, Sansa Stark unfolded one of her arms and laid it across the enormous chest of her enormous husband, and he in turn lifted his hand from the ground and rested it on her hip. _My husband._ She would be happy with him, she was certain, and when he kissed the top of her head she was even more certain. She didn’t want to wait anymore, wouldn’t deny him anymore. It was high time she do her duty by him, and on the morrow… she would.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *knocks back shots of Crooked Bay*  
> *sighs dramatically*  
> *weeps uncontrollably*


	16. The Error

The Hound was in a right foul mood, a biting misery he hadn’t experienced in at least a fortnight. He knew why, too- it was the girl, and her new _fondness_ for him. 

During the day they were getting closer and closer to Riverrun, and during the night he was getting closer and closer to claiming her maidenhead. He knew it was true, and also knew he shouldn’t- he’d tell himself he had to be better, had to treat her with respect, but then she’d be next to him and his resolve would crumble into dust and he’d happily be doing whatever she allowed.

He was a failure, he knew that- as a fighter, an escort, a guardian, he’d failed her in nearly every way imaginable. And to prove it to himself he’d tick off the examples in his head, from the day he first spoke to her on the Kings Road to the lewd things he’d done to her just last night.  But instead of filling him with shame like it was supposed to do, he’d find his blood running hotter and his pulse racing faster and he’d wonder if she’d let him do it again.  And then, just as the urge was reaching a fever pitch and he was close to just claiming her right on Stranger’s back, he’d remember what a filthy old disgusting dog he was and guilt would quickly replace the lust.  He was _terrible._   And to prove it to himself he'd start listing all the things he'd done to her.  Round and round, all day long, and it seemed no matter what he was thinking or feeling at any given point in this useless cycle he was always just incredibly _angry_ about it.

That deep red-purple mark on her neck wasn’t helping things at all- it was one great big reminder of both his pleasure from the night and his shame in the light. And she was completely oblivious to its very existence, which somehow made it even worse, magnified his memory and made him think he could almost still taste her, still feel her on his tongue.  She had peaked much faster than he would have thought possible, so either his technique was flawless or she was just ripe for a release.  Maybe both, he smirked; but that didn’t mean he had to act on it, damn him.  He shouldn’t have done… _that_.  And he definitely should not have let her…  What was he thinking?  What was _she_ thinking?  And would she let him do it again?  No, no, what was _wrong_ with him?!  He should be sick with remorse, not hoping for more!

Seven hells, he needed some wine.  

At least he didn’t have to worry about tonight. He’d found her rummaging through bags looking for rags just this afternoon, and when she’d admitted to him she was bleeding he demanded to know how she’d gotten hurt.  The awkward silence and furious blushing that followed had finally clued him in that her moonblood was upon her, and he’d hurried away quickly to preserve her dignity.  It was shameful, he knew, that his first concern had been how he wouldn’t get to taste her cunt again, and it was that shame that made him push the lewd thoughts away and pretend that he was happy about it.

When he got back to camp after setting the snares that night she was sprawled out on top of their bedroll, her hair around her head as if it was floating. Never would he have thought to see the proper Lady Sansa Stark lounging so casually, but at the same time… the girl had changed.  It made sense, of course- he’d been her only companion for two months, and her courtesies were useless weapons on him.  With time they had slipped away, much like propriety had.

She hadn’t made the fire like she usually did- like she was _supposed_ to- which meant _he_ would have to, and he honestly wasn’t looking forward it.  Eh, he’d wait to see if the snares worked before he bothered.  He had half a mind to join her on the bedroll, just to see what would happen, but the sun was still up so a few stray shreds of honor still clung to him.  Instead he sat against a tree and set about tending to his sword and armor; the task was tedious as always, but a welcome distraction.

“Why don’t you ever kiss me during the day?”

The question was drawled almost lazily, as if it were truly just a simple little inquiry even though he knew better. And he couldn’t think of a single response that didn’t sound foolish so he didn’t answer at all, just ignored the question.  If his silence bothered her, though, she didn’t show it, only rolled over onto her belly to watch him as he worked.

“What do you think will happen when we get to Riverrun?”

“Happen?” he echoed, dragging the whetstone across the blade and trying to ignore the way her foot was waving little circles in the air, her skirt pooling around her knees.

“Hmmm. I keep wondering what my mother will say, or how my brother will react.  I can’t decide if I’m excited or frightened about seeing them.”

“You should be _frightened_ ,” he muttered blandly.  “Your kingly brother will marry you off to a Frey, no doubt.”

The foot stopped waving midflight. “What do you mean?”

“Since he broke his agreement with them he’ll be looking for a way to repair that alliance. You’re the next best thing.  You’re old enough, already bled…”  _A woman, now_ , he wanted to say; there was no denying it anymore, she was all woman and ready for a husband, a thought he didn’t want to dwell on.  So he didn’t.  “If I were him, that’s what I’d do.”

He sheathed his sword and moved on to his armor, grabbing the filthiest piece first and oiling it with an unnecessarily feverish intensity. Damn him, but why was he suddenly so very angry?

“I can’t marry a _Frey,”_ the girl hissed.  “I’m already married.”

Sandor felt ice collecting heavy in his gut as he realized what it was she was saying; it made sense now, her recent pattern of passivity, her tolerance of his attention. She thought they were married; she _still thought_ they were married, even though he told her they weren’t.

“Sansa…”

She had rolled over to sit up and was glaring at him, breath labored and expression incredulous. “I am your _wife._ And you would let me be married off to a Frey?”

“We’re not married,” he snarled irritably. Seven hells, hadn’t they already _had_ this argument?

“But… you said the vows. You put your cloak on me.  You promised to protect me.  You _promised._ Did that mean _nothing_?”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake, Sansa, how do you see this ending? Truly, how are you imagining that this ends?  Do you see us riding into Riverrun and your family embracing us and throwing a feast and granting us lands and… what?  Do you really think your mother and brother will be happy to see you with me?”

She’d pushed up off the ground and was now standing on the bedroll, vacillating between anger and anguish, and a little bit of awe, too, he thought. Surely this wasn’t a surprise to her, but considering all the things she’d done with him lately… perhaps it was.

“It doesn’t matter what I _think_ will happen or _hope_ to happen, it doesn’t matter if my mother and brother are displeased, _it’s already done_.  You can’t just _change_ it by saying it isn’t so.”

“Yes, I can,” he sneered up at her. “And your family will be more than happy to agree with me, mark my words.”

“You want to make my _family_ happy?  What of me and _my_ happiness?  Does that not matter to you?”

“I can’t make you happy,” he rasped dispassionately, the matter settled. The buggering oilcloth was useless, completely fucking useless, and his chain mail was damn near unsalvageable.  Pointless task, it was, and one he wouldn’t bother with anymore.  He stopped what he was doing and went to his bag, ostensibly to put the cloth and mail away… but truly just to escape the girl’s glower.  That was a pointless task, too, cause she followed his every move, her anger matching his own.  

“You certainly can’t if you never even try!  What are you thinking?  You can’t just decide you don’t want to be married anymore.”  The girl stamped her foot to emphasize her point, actually stamped her foot like a child.  Which is exactly what she was.  How had he forgotten?

“We’re not married!” he rounded on her.

She barely reacted to his outburst, just stood teetering, clearly lost in thought. He knew exactly what she was thinking about- the same thing he’d been thinking about all day.  She didn’t seem angry, though, she just seemed… defeated, looking at him with those accusing eyes, even though he hadn’t done any wrong.  He hadn’t done anything wrong, damn her!

“I would have let you… and you would have _let_ me let you… and then you would have… _left_ …”

He wanted to protest, to tell her that he wouldn’t have ever done what she was accusing him of, except he knew full well that if she had said ‘yes’ he wouldn’t have been able to stop himself. He never lied to her, never mislead her; he just thought they were operating under the same set of assumptions.  “I told you that already, it’s not my fault you weren’t listening.”

“I’m listening now,” she said sadly, unable to meet his eyes. “You would gladly take what you want from me then leave me when you get… what?  What is it you want?”

“I don't want anything,” he snapped.

“You say that now, but the sun goes down and you change your tune.”

“Don’t pull that innocent act on me, you were more than willing.”

“Because you’re my _husband,”_ she shouted, and he was reminded again that he’d definitely taken a toll on the girl, what with the way her anger spilled forth so easily.  “I don’t understand.  You don’t want money, you don’t want a position, you don’t want _me_ … what do you want?”

“I never asked for anything.”

“Then why are you _doing_ this? _Any_ of this?” she cried, waving her arms around her to emphasize her point.  “Why are you here?  Why did you bring me with you?  What is it you  _expect?”_

_“Nothing!”_

“But you have nowhere to go!” she insisted, her voice strained. “Do I truly make you so unhappy that you would rather take your chances with the unknown?” 

“They will _never_ let me stay, you know that.  It is easier to just keep your mouth shut and pretend none of this ever happened. _Any_ of it.”

Her breath was labored, expression panicked; her eyes were on his, searching, searching… “You won’t even _try?”_

“To what end?” he sneered. “You go in there and start talking about being married and things will only go badly for you.  For both of us.” 

His argument must have worked because the girl finally softened, all the fight melting out of her and leaving behind just a cold and broken little bird, too sad even for weeping anymore... but not too sad to finish him.

“I expected more of you.” It was the worst thing she could have said and cut him deeper than any sword, especially with the way she was looking at him, blue eyes pleading with him, tears trickling down her cheek. 

“You shouldn’t have.”

It was the truth, wasn’t it? Even she knew it, now, even if she didn’t know it before.  It still hurt, though, when she lifted her eyes to him and nodded-

“Yes.”

He couldn’t be here anymore, fighting with her like this, arguing over whether or not he would stay with her as if that was ever an option. Couldn’t listen to her promises to be with him always and treat him well, hear her prattle on about a future that couldn’t exist.  So he left, turned and left her standing there alone and utterly destroyed, but even before he could get too far away he could hear her choked sobs.

It wasn’t his fault, damn her. She wanted her family, and her family would never let him stay.  It was one or the other, and really, he knew she would never pick him so he’d eliminated the choice.  She should be glad that he wasn’t trying to make her choose, or trying to force her hand, or trying to steal her away.  Instead she was acting like the spoiled little high-born princess that she was, throwing a fit because she couldn’t have everything she wanted. 

Well, life didn’t work that way- no one got everything they wanted. Some people never got _anything_ they wanted, so she could just go to hell.

He stayed away from her, like the night they fought- the _last_ time they fought- insisting to himself that this was for the best, that all of it was for the best.  He wasn’t truly that far away from her, but he kept himself hidden till the sun went down and longer, unwilling to face her though he didn’t usually run from a confrontation.  Only from her, it seemed.  They wouldn’t be eating tonight, and he didn’t even feel bad about it.  His stomach was not pleased, but the rest of him had no need for food, no desire for… anything.  The anger that had gripped him so completely throughout the day was gone, replaced by an overwhelming helplessness, and after a while even that was gone and he only felt numb. 

When he finally crept his way through the darkness and back to camp she was already fast asleep… in her own bedroll, an arm’s distance away from his.


	17. The Wanting

 

She was standing next to Stranger, waiting for the Hound to help her up in a now-familiar ritual she didn’t even have to think through. Strong hands gripped her around the waist and hoisted her to the saddle, but after she was safely atop the horse he didn’t withdraw, continued to feel her waist as if just now determining something was wrong, brows wrinkling together in concern.

“You’ve gotten skinny, little bird.”

Her heart plummeted. It wasn’t just the name, or what he said, or the way his hands were appraising her ribcage- it was that he spoke to her at all.  After complete silence the whole of the previous day, hearing his voice in such a casual manner left her gaping slack-jawed at him and unable to respond.

When he finally became aware of her silent staring he quickly dropped his arms with a grunt, then swung up into the saddle behind her and urged Stranger forward. Just the same as always.  Except that it _wasn’t_ the same as always, and never would be again; since he’d told her he didn’t want her, everything had changed.

It had been so cold the previous evening and she had slept alone for the second night in a row. She’d shivered so much that her jaw hurt from clenching her teeth, an unwelcome reminder of the heat he used to provide her, and she doubted she’d ever be able to sleep just thinking about it.  She had thought things couldn’t have been any worse than that, but then he’d risen and crossed the short distance to where she was and wordlessly laid his cloak over her before retreating back to his bedroll.

And _that_ had been the worst.  At that moment she had hated him more than she had ever hated anything in her life, more than Joffrey or Cersei or Ser Meryn, _hated_ him for pretending to care about her when he’d told her he did not.  And above it all it hurt, hurt in her heart and her stomach, hurt in her throat where she could hardly breathe and in her eyes where she squeezed away her tears.  She’d fallen asleep soon after that, certain that it was her own fury keeping her warm and not his damnable cloak.

He was doing it again now, pretending he cared, pretending to be bothered by her malnourishment or discomfort. It was the very worst kind of lie, she thought, and he’d always said he wasn’t a liar.  It made her angry more than anything, so she handled it in the only way she could that didn’t result in her lashing out: by staying silent, shutting him out in the same way he shut her out.

She wasn’t trying to be spiteful, not really. She was just trying to behave as she used to, back when they were a princess and her escort, and if it _happened_ to hurt him then so be it.  She wondered if he missed her, the sound of her voice, missed her touches and her kisses, if he was frustrated on a physical level.  She hoped he was. 

So maybe she _was_ trying to be spiteful.

She shouldn’t miss him as much as she did, not now that she knew what it was he was playing at. She had thought that he was being patient with her, that he was being understanding and sweet, and the _sweeter_ he was the closer she wanted to get to him.  It was heartbreaking to realize that it had not been a demonstration of love by her husband, but instead was a blatant show of selfishness by her escort.  He took what she was willing to give; it did not matter to him why she gave it.

It hurt to think on, so she tried not to, but it was hard to ignore when she knew soon it would all be over. They would be at Riverrun in less than a week, he said, and then he’d leave her and she’d never see him again and they’d both be free to forget… everything.  This man who she knew better than anyone else in Westeros would be gone and out of her life- there’d be no more kisses or embraces, true, but also no more conversations or stories.  She’d never hear that raspy voice ever again. 

Spite felt suddenly like such a pointless reason for keeping him at a distance.

Sansa glanced up at her companion of nearly two months, the dour expression he showed her more often than not now. He had that same wall around him he had back when they first left the capital, back before they really knew each other.  Before she knew him the way she did now.  He was the same man, but so different- those lips he now pressed in a line were the same ones he’d pressed to her neck, the arms he kept away from her were the ones that used to hold her every night, the eyes now burning in irritation used to burn for her in other ways.  And gods, she missed him.  Why did she have to miss him?

The Hound was visibly displeased by her open staring and was starting to become agitated though he would not look at her.

 _“What?”_ he growled, so much like the man he used to be.

“Do you know how to swim?”

His eyes narrowed and blinked in confusion as if he wasn’t sure she was talking to him, and she thought for a moment he wasn’t going to answer. But he finally said…

“Yes.”

…and that was it, he offered nothing more. His brief response wasn’t really surprising, but at this point in the journey it was incredibly annoying.  Why was _she_ always the one trying to get a conversation started?  Why was _she_ the only one who showed an interest in her travel companion?  They might not be married but they were still _something_ , so why was she the only one worried about never seeing him again?

“Why don't you ever ask me anything?”

Again with the confused blinking; again with the growl of irritation.

“Don’t need to.”

“That… doesn’t make any sense. I don’t ask you questions because I need to, I ask because it’s polite.”

“You asked me if I know how to swim because it’s _polite?”_ he jeered.

“Showing interest in one’s companion is courteous. You show interest by asking questions.  I ask you questions, but you never ask me anything.  Why not?”

“I already _told you_ I don’t need to.”

“And I told _you_ it’s not about need, it’s about being polite.  Can’t you show me a little courtesy?  Haven’t I earned it?”

“Seven hells, Sansa, you act like I’ve never done anything for you just because I won’t ask you a buggering question.”

“But it’s so _easy_.  I don’t understand why you won’t.”

“I don’t _need_ to.”

He didn’t _need_ to.  Damn him.  She wanted to ask how he could care so little for her, how he could feel nothing after everything they had been through.  After everything they’d been through _together_.  But in truth, she was more than a little afraid of his answer; he couldn’t help it if he didn’t want her, and demanding that he care about her would never work.  She _knew_ that.  But at the same time…  

“Do you truly have so little interest in me?” she hissed before she could stop herself.

He was glaring down at her, mouth twitching, nostrils flaring... he was almost as angry as _she_ was, though he did nothing to contradict her statement. 

“I know everything about you,” she spat bitterly, not sure why she was saying it or why it mattered or exactly why she was so upset.

“And I know everything about you,” he snapped right back at her.

“How _could_ you?  You never ask me _anything!_ You don’t care about me at all! _”_

Sansa sucked in air and held it, too afraid to breathe lest the tears begin to fall. He couldn’t know, he _couldn’t_.  He’d seen her cry for him too much already, and she would absolutely not show him this weakness anymore.  It would be perfectly acceptable to her if they never spoke to each other ever again, and clearly acceptable to him since he never tried to talk to her about anything. _Ever!_ So she was more than a little surprised when he actually _did_.

“In Winterfell… your brother- the bastard one- he said you should all take the princes swimming in the godswood pools, and you said that ladies don’t swim for sport and that’s why you never bothered to learn.”

“You remember me from Winterfell?” she blurted before she could remind herself she was angry and not speaking to him; he huffed and sneered down at her like that was the stupidest question he’d ever heard but she did not look away.  “You hated me.”

He looked like he was going to disagree but changed his mind.  “You hated _me._ ”

“You _frightened_ me,” she corrected him.  “Intentionally.”

He seemed to think on that a moment, then smirked without looking at her. “Wasn’t hard.”

It _wasn’t_ hard, even she had to admit, but that was years ago, and he didn’t frighten her anymore.  Now he only ever made her angry, it seemed, though even the anger was hard to hold onto as his words slowly started to sink in.

He hadn’t asked her if she knew how to swim because… he didn’t need to. He already knew.  And true, he could have asked her anyway, just to make her happy, but pretending he didn’t already know the answer would have been false, and the man was all about honesty.  He’d said so _repeatedly_.  He only ever spoke the truth, she knew that.  So it must be true that he didn’t want to be married to her, didn’t want to stay with her, because he had specifically said so, had said...

He had said…

That he wouldn’t stay. He had said they weren’t married because she was a princess and he was a dog.  He had said he would never be accepted by her family.  But he’d never said a word about what he _wanted_. 

Now, as before, she was thinking about everything he had ever said to her, but this time she was more consumed with all the things he _hadn’t_ said.  He never said he didn’t _want_ to be married to her, never said he didn’t _want_ to stay with her, never said he _didn’t_ care about her.  Quite the opposite.  He had told her he would keep her safe and never let anyone hurt her.  And under the heart tree he had pledged his love and protection. 

When he told her he wouldn’t stay he hadn’t lied, but he hadn’t been completely honest, either. He’d built a reputation around telling the truth, yet when he was presented with a truth he wouldn’t admit to he simply dodged the question.  That mummer.  It was so clear now, so incredibly clear she couldn’t believe she’d never seen it before.

More than anything she wanted to reach for him, to make things like they used to be, to tell him that she knew what he wanted. But he’d made it perfectly clear it was not up to her.  She wanted him to stay with her, and _he_ wanted to stay with her, but he _wouldn’t_ stay with her and there was no way to make him change his decision.  The gods knew she had tried, had done absolutely everything to convince him.  Well, _almost_ everything.  Maybe…

No. That would _not_ be happening, not as long as he kept insisting he’d leave her.  Perhaps if he pledged his love and promised to stay she would, but not until then.  The problem with that plan, though, was that he would _never_ promise her anything, no matter how much she begged for it, and the thought made tears spring to her eyes, her throat close painfully.  She turned her head away from him, not wanting him to see her distress, but couldn’t hide the way her shoulders shook or the way her breath had halted, and he _knew_.  He _always_ knew.

“Sansa…”

“Yes, my…” Her answer was immediate, obedient… and wrong.  He’d told her too many times that he wasn’t a lord, and now she knew why he said it, what he meant, what he’d _always_ meant.  He wasn’t her lord; he wasn’t her _anything_.  “What?”

Hot tears were trickling down her cheeks by then, but she kept her head high and turned from him, willed her body to stop its shaking while she waited for his answer.

“Nothing.”

They rode in silence the rest of the day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not gonna lie, I find this chapter kinda boring, lol. And a bit clunky, but thought-processes often ARE clunky, and there are some realizations in here that are important moving forward, so... there ya go.


	18. The Tactician

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it took forever to get out an update, hope you all remember what's going on.  
> = = = = = = = = = = =

It was a beautiful day! The sun was shining, the birds were singing, and the King’s Sworn Shield and the King’s betrothed were passing this lovely afternoon in the only way they knew how:  by arguing.

“It’s _romantic.”_

“It’s _foolish.”_

The death of her two youngest brothers wasn’t the only thing he’d heard about at the inn that night, but it had completely overshadowed the news that Robb Stark had broken his betrothal to a Frey in order to marry some girl from the Westerlands. Sandor had recognized the political ramifications immediately; he should have known the girl would only see the romance.

“If he’s in love with her…”

“He’s not in love with her, he wanted her cunt.”

“You don’t _know_ that.”

“Yes, I do.”

Ever since their last fight she’d completely shed the persona of the girl she’d become in favor of the girl she used to be, with her head held high and her back straight and her haughty attitude. He hardly recognized her anymore, but it didn’t bother him, not really; if anything it only confirmed his decision to not stay with her, because if _this_ was how she acted towards him when no one was around then he could only imagine the irritating princess she’d turn into once they reached her family.  No way in hell would he stay for _that._

“Even if you’re right, he did the only thing he could have. She’s a lady.  If he dishonored her, he _had_ to marry her.”

“That’s thinking like a lord.”

“Pardons?”

“He’s not a lord, he’s a king. Kings can’t put one girl’s honor above their own, they have an entire realm to worry about, promises they need to keep.  His responsibilities are different than those of a lord.”

“And what of a man? What are _his_ responsibilities when it comes to ladies?”  She drawled her question like she was setting a trap but he was not so stupid he would fall for it.

“He doesn’t _have_ any,” he growled.  “One of the benefits of _not_ being a lord.” 

Her only response was a tight-lipped icy glare followed by complete silence. In truth, he preferred the arguing, because in those moments he would remember the timid, pliant girl she once was and he’d know that _this_ would be the part of him she would always keep with her- the part that taught her how to fight.  He’d rather see her angry than sullen, and the fact that the fury in her eyes somehow magnified her beauty was better and worse at the same time.  He had half a mind to provoke another argument now, but before he could decide on just the right insult he heard voices calling to them from behind.

“Seven bleeding hells. Get your cloak on, hurry.  You remember that fool tale you thought up?”

“I certainly do,” she clipped, pulling her hood up and tucking in her hair.

“You sure?” _He_ wasn’t; they hadn’t discussed their pretend roles in more than a fortnight and she hadn’t had much chance to practice. 

“I certainly am.” There was something about her tone that raised his suspicions but he couldn’t quite name it and didn’t have time to think about it besides.  The voices had caught up with them and were already making conversation.

“Hello, friends,” a man called as a horse appeared next to them- on his _unburned_ side, thank the Stranger.  “Beautiful day, no?”

“Yes, beautiful,” Sansa agreed, smiling sweetly as more horses appeared in the periphery on his right, three in total- the man, a woman, and a young boy; a family, most like.

“Mind if we share the road for a while, it makes the journey a little nicer.”

“That would be lovely,” Sansa sighed and he knew- he _knew_ \- she was going to talk them into their graves with these people.  She’d been itching for a conversation the whole of their journey and now she had the opportunity to talk she was seizing it with both hands, and soon the introductions were being made. 

“I’m Alyn,” the man began. “This is my wife Beth, and our son Dalton.  You?”

“I’m Dawn,” Sansa answered naturally, _so_ naturally it almost sounded like the truth.  “And this is my grandfather, Jaime.” 

The Hound bristled before he could help himself, not just because of the name, and not just because her suddenly strained voice had pitched upwards, but because… _grandfather?_ The strangers were now openly staring at him, no doubt smelling a lie and trying to figure out where it was; they were not going to be easily won over by her tale.  And that was no real wonder, since he wouldn’t even look at them, instead sat stiffly in the saddle, watching the road ahead.

“Your grandfather?” the woman echoed doubtfully. “Truly?”

“Oh, yes,” the girl nodded, over-fast and over-eager. “I know he looks young but grandfather is very _very_ old.  Dying, actually.  Too weak and feeble to be on his own, so I’m here to take care of him.”

The man and woman exchanged confused looks and missed the way Sansa leveled her eyes at him with an expression that _dared_ him to speak against her; she knew full well that for once he wouldn’t- he _couldn’t_ \- argue with her.  Well, fuck her- if she thought she could hurt him with this stupid tale, thought she could wound him with something as weak as words, she’d have to think again.

“Where are you headed, if you don’t mind my asking?”

“On our way to Riverrun.”

“Riverrun, aye. What business have you there?”

“None, yet.   I hope to get some work there- as much as I can- so I can support this old man.  We’ve not one coin between us and grandfather eats like an aurouchs.”

“You poor, poor girl,” the woman hummed in consolation. “Don’t you have any family that can help you with this… burden?” 

“No, I’m all he has left. He’s quite fortunate to have me, really.  No one else wants him.”  Sansa nodded her head in over exaggerated misery, eyes wide and brows knit, the very image of a downtrodden-but-still-virtuous maid.  Damn her. 

“I see,” the man muttered in a way that said he did _not_ see. 

“He did find one woman who was willing to wed him- a very sweet woman, too good for him, really- but poor grandfather was unable to consummate the union. So here we are.” 

Alyn and Beth once again looked to each other in confusion while Sandor turned his head fully to Sansa and glared daggers, but she only grinned up at him with a honey-sweet and satisfied smile. Seven hells, but she was a terrible liar.  How these fucking idiots hadn’t figured it out yet he didn’t know, but he supposed he should be… grateful?  Bugger that.

“Aye, well… good you’re almost to Riverrun, then. The roads are treacherous these days, not safe for anyone much less a maiden and a crippled old man.”

_Crippled?!_

“You are quite right about that,” Sansa nodded. “We were attacked once by a thief but grandfather Jaime here couldn’t so much as lift a sword; I had to fight the man off myself.”

Damn her, that was unfair- _accurate,_ but unfair- and that poxy peasant woman was clucking in disapproval to his right and he couldn’t do a buggering thing about it.

“Oh you poor thing- alone, orphaned, and saddled with a man who can’t even protect you. Maybe in Riverrun you can find a husband.” 

“Aye, a husband would be good for you,” Alyn agreed at once. “Young, pretty, friendly- even with a load such as him, a man would count himself lucky to claim you.” 

“You would think so, wouldn’t you?” Sansa asked softly, her smile faltering, and everything became suddenly awkward.  But she recovered quickly and showed the strangers a brave face, as if _she_ were the one consoling _them_.  “Please, don’t pity me.  Soon grandfather will be feeding the crows and I’ll have many _many_ suitors.  Shouldn’t be long now.  Right, grandfather?”

_Fuck you._

The conversation moved on to discussions about Alyn and Beth and Dalton, the girl peppering them with questions much like she used to do to him. The family plied their trade as cobblers and travelled from town to town to sell their wares, so she asked them about Maidenpool and Oldtown and Tumbleton, about the people they’d seen, their best trades, their worst customers.  They discussed the weather, sang songs, played games, and just generally irritated him in every possible manner.  When they reached a side road towards Oldstones the old cobbler finally begged off; the Hound could not have been happier.

“Ah, here is where we leave you,” the man announced. “Safe travels, friends, many blessings to you both.”

“You as well,” Sansa responded, warm with genuine affection, damn her. “Thank you for sharing the road with us, it really did make the journey more enjoyable.”

And after a few more words of farewell they were alone again, and she looked up at him with a very sweet, very triumphant, very annoying smile.

“What in seven hells is wrong with you?” he growled as she burst into laughter, louder perhaps than completely necessary. “You were supposed to tell them a story that wouldn’t make them remember us.” 

“Oh, stop,” she waved a hand at him in airy dismissal. “They were nice.”

“Nice people remember things. Nice people talk.  Nice people can still get you killed.”

She sighed and shook her head as if disappointed in him, as if _he_ were the half-wit who didn’t understand things when _she_ was the one acting the fool.  “We’re almost to Riverrun, _grandfather._ Does it really matter anymore if we’re recognized?”

“We’ll find out, won’t we? Damn.  The _one thing_ I ask you to do and you fuck it all to hell.” 

“You’re just angry because _my_ story is better than _your_ story,” she sniffed at him, haughty little high-born not near as contrite as she should be. 

“Your story is shit,” he snapped, earning himself another stern look. Gods _damn_ her; it wasn’t that long ago such words would have had her stammering out an apology.  Now she pressed her lips into a smirk as if pleased she could provoke him.  

“Perhaps you’re right. Next time I’ll say I slew _two_ men while you just stood there, useless.”

“That’s completely fucking stupid,” he grumbled his displeasure. “Just like that idiot brother of yours.”

“He’s not stupid,” she snapped, a little too quickly, a little too firmly. “He’s _romantic!”_

“He’s _foolish!”_ he shot right back.

“I still think it’s honorable,” she muttered after a moment, swinging back fully to their previous discussion about Robb’s new wife.

“And you would still be _wrong._ Kings can’t do that shit.”  They fell into silence, each pouting at the other’s stubbornness before he added a final thought.  “It’s not as if he put a baby in her.”

Sandor Clegane had never thought himself a stupid man- until he’d met the girl, of course. This last admission was just the latest in a string of terrible decisions he’d made since that day long ago on the Kings Road.  He knew it as soon as the words left his mouth, even before the bird peered up at him, eyes narrowed and thoughts plain on her pretty face.

“Would that be different?” she asked, words measured and uncertain.

“Well… if she were with child then he would have an heir, and he’d want to legitimize it. So yes, it would be different.  If she were with child then it makes sense to marry her.”

“So… if a man and woman lay together he has no obligation to her, but if he gets her with child he should marry her?”

Damn. Damn damn damn her to all seven hells, and damn him too, for being so foolish.  He should say something right now to get that stupid idea out of her head, he knew that, but looking down at her, remembering how her lips tasted and how her skin felt and how her dainty little hand curled around his… no, fuck, he could not let her keep thinking that.

“I never said that,” he growled, looking her right in the eyes. “And it’s not what I meant.”

Her exaggerated eyeroll was the only indication that his words had hit their mark- she heard what he was saying loud and clear though he never came right out and said it, and when she returned to her sulking he was certain the matter was settled.

The anger, though… that wouldn’t dissipate. Was she really so daft she would even consider what he thought she was considering?  After all this time, did she still not truly understand what he was capable of?  He could hurt her, if he wanted to; he _would_ hurt her, if she let him.  The only solution was to make sure she never let him, even if he had to cut her with the truth, even if he had to _ignore_ the truth.  He wasn’t sure if he should be proud of his new-found honor or disgusted at his new-found stupidity.  Probably both. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So... obviously, it's been a while. I had a rough idea on what I wanted to happen this chapter but couldn't get it down in a way I was satisfied with. Still not quite satisfied but at least it's done. In the mean time, I'm moving! I know I keep saying that, but it's really happening now. Kids are officially withdrawn from school, movers showing up on Monday, we are closing on the 31st. By the time I update again I will have transitioned my family from one state to another and (hopefully) be completely settled in.
> 
> Shout-out to the Baratheon Bros group for letting me bounce ideas off them.


End file.
